


The Most Convenient Definitions

by igrockspock



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five teens meet in detention at George Kirk Memorial Preparatory School:  Jim Kirk, perpetual misfit.  Spock, star of the debate team, perpetually under pressure from his overachieving parents.  Nyota Uhura, linguistics expert and resident ice princess.  Pavel Chekov, small, brilliant, utterly incapable of fitting in. Gaila, an escaped Orion slave who doesn't fit in and doesn't want to.  Together, they are trapped under the command of Headmaster Christopher Pike, and they just may discover they have something in common after all.  A twenty-third century adaptation of The Breakfast Club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Convenient Definitions

**Author's Note:**

> Content advisory: contains references to child abuse.

Jim strides toward the school, resisting the urge to pull his coat tighter against the early morning chill. Frank had put a retinal scanner on every motor vehicle on the farm, and it's a long walk from home to school. But he's not confessing that he got detention, much less that he's going to attend it, and that means he's walking all five miles. He hears the car speeding across the parking lot, but he keeps walking, daring it to break him. When it screeches to a halt inches from his legs, just like he knew it would, he doesn't even spare it a glance. That means he doesn't see the Riverside City Child Protective Services logo on the side, doesn't see the green skinned girl in the secondhand coat step outside, doesn't see the driver slam down the accelerator just as the girl bends over to thank him for the journey. People look at James Tiberius Kirk all the time -- he makes sure of it -- but he never looks at anyone he can't fight or fuck, and that's okay by him. No matter what he misses.

***

 

Seconds after Kirk steps inside the school, a sleek black Mercedes glides into the parking lot and stops in front of the doors.

"I can't _believe_ you couldn't get me out of this. I can't believe _I_ couldn't get myself out of this." The voice is high and mellifluous, musical even when complaining. Its owner is meticulously arranging black leather gloves over freshly manicured nails, preparing herself thoroughly even for the brief journey into the cold. "I am ranked third in my class. I am devoted to my studies. I speak seventeen languages and play three musical instruments. I serve on the student council and participate in multiple volunteer organizations. I am not a delinquent and I do _not_ belong in detention."

The voice of the man beside her sounds long-suffering but not unsympathetic. "I'll make it up to you. You're right. Skipping school to crash a linguistics conference does not make you a delinquent. I'll take you shopping after I pick you up."

Nyota rolls her eyes.

"Next time, just get me into the conference." She steps out of the car without waiting for a response, sniffing slightly when she sees Jim Kirk milling around the lobby. She enters the school with her head high and shoulders back, black Louis Vuitton boots clicking with every step. If she has to be here, she will make it clear that she doesn't belong.  


***

 

The next car to enter the parking lot is another black Mercedes, indistinguishable from the Uhura family car except for the diplomatic license plates. The teenage boy in the passenger seat reaches for the door, but a small hand gesture from his father stops him.

"Spock, though you may not have anticipated this information, I too committed transgressions in my youth. It is not uncommon, even for Vulcans." The voice is careful and even, didactic rather than disappointed. "However, your position is more precarious than mine. I am the Ambassador to Earth, and all of us must show respect for every law and regulation on this planet. Moreover, you must by now be aware that because of your ancestry, many on our planet watch you carefully. You must give them no reason to criticize."

"Father, I am already aware of the nature and repercussions of my actions. Mother explained them most thoroughly last night." Neither his voice nor his face show any trace of impatience; he is merely a dutiful Vulcan child, accepting the teaching of an elder.

"Nonetheless, you must consider that the Vulcan Science Academy does not offer positions to those whose emotional urges cause them to violate trivial rules. It is my expectation and, I hope, your own that your conduct from henceforward will be unimpeachable."

At this, Spock's jaw clenches faintly, but as his father is staring forward, the slight lapse goes unobserved.

"Yes, Father," he says, and steps out of the car.   


***

 

The final car to pull into the lot is older and more battered than the others. Three occupants are wedged tightly into the front seat: an older, portly woman with her hair tied in a kerchief, a young girl who is nonetheless nearly as tall as her older brother, and a teenage boy with the face of a ten-year-old beneath an unruly mop of curls.

"Pavel Andreivich Chekov, I did not move this family here from Russia so that you could break rules and waste your education. Is this the first time we do this or the last?"

The boy looks at the floor and mutters, "Last, Mother."

"Then get in there and use this time to your advantage."

"Mother, we are not allowed to study. We are to sit and do nothing." Pavel sighs. He has explained this to his mother many times already, yet she cannot seem to understand that he cannot break the rules while being punished for violating them.

"Then you figure out a way to study. You will not waste this day."

"Yeah!" adds the little sister, and Pavel glares at her. She is not carrying the weight of the family's expectations; she does not deserve to criticize him.

"Well, go!" his mother calls, and Pavel dashes out before his sister has a chance to urge him on.  


***

 

Spock enters the library with measured steps. His presence here is inconvenient, but he believes he can still use the day to his advantage. He has reviewed the behavior code for students serving detention, and meditation is not prohibited. Moreover, his eidetic memory will allow him to review his texts while maintaining the appearance of inactivity.

He intends to select a secluded seat to avoid distraction but pauses when he sees Nyota Uhura sitting rigidly in the first chair of the first table. After 1.2 seconds of consideration, he indicates the seat next to her, and she responds with a delicate shrug. He sits quickly, reflecting that this change in his plan is not illogical. Due to their shared interest in linguistics, Ms. Uhura would make an ideal study partner, but her rigorous extra-curricular schedule and his own demanding study schedule have precluded the possibility of an introduction. Perhaps he can accomplish this today.  


***

 

Gaila watches the exchange from her vantage point behind one of the interactive research stations. She learned this as a pirate -- to be the first to enter a room and the last to sit down, and to spend the time in between watching, observing, making judgments. Before, she'd done it to survive; now she does it because watching these naive human children sort out their social hierarchies amuses her.

Uhura had sat down first of course, always early to everything she does. Equally predictably, she had chosen the position that would require everyone who entered the room to walk past her and look at her. Not coincidentally, it is also the position that declares to teachers her eagerness to impress.

Spock had been next, and his choice of seat had surprised Gaila; she had thought the Vulcan would sit alone. But he noticed Uhura, like everyone does, and now he is sitting beside her in the front row. Just like her, he finds the seat that proclaims his desperate longing for teachers' attention.

The door swings open again and the skinny Russian kid wanders in, staring uncertainly at the small selection of tables and chairs. He doesn't know his own position, or even what he wants his position to be. After a second's pause, he walks toward the table behind Spock and Uhura, not front and center but not too far toward the back. His walk is decisive, trying to cover for his moment's hesitation at the door. Every second or two, his eyes flick toward Spock and Uhura, and Gaila can tell he simultaneously longs for their attention and fears that they will see his uncertainty.

As soon as Chekov sits, the door flies open so widely that Gaila thinks its hinges will snap. Everyone looks at Kirk, just as he wanted, and he makes a show of his entrance, touching everything at the check-out stand and pocketing office supplies just to prove he's not afraid to steal. With a single glance, Kirk forces Chekov to move across the room, and he settles ostentatiously into the abandoned seat, putting each of his feet on the table with a heavy thud.

Gaila rolls her eyes at the show while the others stare with a mixture of awe and disgust. Now it is her turn to make an entrance, and she does so simply, walking all the way around the library to take a seat in the very back. She ignores Uhura's smirk, Spock's raised eyebrow, and Chekov's confused stare. With their entrance and choice of seat, each of them had proven that their universe revolves around the others' opinions; her behavior declares simply that she is not a part of their world and does not wish to be.  


***

 

Pike rises reluctantly from the faux wood desk in the center of his small, cluttered office. The civilian suit hangs awkwardly from his lanky frame, foreign after so many years in uniform. He had rescued it from storage in his mother's basement, and he suspects that is many years, possibly many decades, out of style.

This was not what he had imagined when Starfleet had assigned him to a two-year Earthside recruiting tour. "Two five year missions and then on-planet rotation," they'd said. "It's mandatory. Time to unwind." He is _not_ unwinding.

"Look, George Kirk Memorial Preparatory School generates more than thirty-five percent of successful applicants to the Academy," a balding admiral had said with stars in his eyes. "We want more. We want you to inspire them, pick out the best of the best, make sure they come to us. You'll love it." Another admiral had clapped him on the shoulder hard and offered his arm a manly squeeze. Pike had known then that he was defeated. He will never forgive them for this.

He walks into the library and tries to imagine that it is the bridge of the _Yorktown_. This only makes him more disappointed when he sees five sullen teenagers instead of the navigation array and captain's chair.

"Well, well here we are! Congratulations for being here on time." His voice is as hard and dry as he's ever heard it.

Nyota Uhura raises her hand and speaks without waiting for recognition.

"Sir, I apologize, but I believe this is a mistake. You said yourself that my linguistic skills were beyond reproach and I quote, my dedication to excellence outstrips even senior Starfleet officers. Detention is not the appropriate place..."

Pike keeps talking. If she wants to join Starfleet, she'll have to learn that she's not above the rules.

"It is now oh-seven-oh-six. You have exactly eight hours and fifty-four minutes to ponder the error of your ways..."

Jim Kirk tilts his head back, spits into the air, then catches it in his mouth, hoping as always for more attention. Pike doesn't react; he once saw a Klingon devour the liver of an unfortunate redshirt, and ever since then, juvenile delinquents who swallow their own saliva haven't really merited his attention. He keeps talking.

"You may not speak, you may not read, you may not study, and _you will not move from these seats._ "

Authority at least comes easy, though it's been many years since he's needed to utter trivial commands to cadets who break trivial rules. He fixes Jim Kirk with his full-on captain's stare.

"And you..." he says, then yanks the chair out from Kirk's feet and pauses till all the eyes are on him.

"...will not sleep. All right, people, we're going to try something a little different today. We are going to write essays -- of no less than one thousand words -- describing to me who you think you are."

This is a bad idea, he knows it. In the best case scenario, he will read five thousand words of their drivel; in the most likely scenario, he will be forced to spend yet another Saturday with them when they do not complete the assignment. Still, he holds some shred of hope that this essay might shed some meager lights on the enigmatic workings of their teenage souls, so he passes out styluses and padds whose wireless chips he'd spent the morning removing.

"Is this a test?" Kirk asks, and Pike ignores him even though he's already tired of this juvenile game of asserting authority by withholding attention.

"And when I say essay, I do mean essay. Not one word repeated a thousand times. Is that clear, Mr. Kirk?"

"Crystal," the kid returns, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

"Good. Maybe you'll all learn a little something about yourselves." He is bullshitting now, doing his best to play the role. "Maybe you'll even decide whether or not you want to return."

The Russian whiz kid -- Chirpov, Chelkov, something or other -- leaps to his feet, standing inexplicably at attention.

"I can answer that question now, sir. The answer is no."

"Sit down, Chekov."

"My office is right across the hall. Any monkey business..." Did he just say monkey business? "...any monkey business is ill-advised.”

He casts one long, hard glare over them for effect. And because he really wants them to leave him the fuck alone all day.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah." That's from Jim Kirk. He stifles a wince.

"That Rigelian lounge singer in the Riverside Shipyard Bar wants his suit back."

That is not a question, but that is beside the point.

"I'll see _you_ next Saturday," he snaps, resisting the temptation to inspect the suit. He strides out of the room, hoping he still has a little dignity intact.  


***

 

Jim reclines in his chair, propping his feet on the table and looks across the room toward Pike's office. Mentally, he rations his time: half an hour of silence for himself; ten or fifteen minutes for an equally silent assessment of his fellow inmates, who don't seem all that interesting, but you never know; another thirty to plot his next confrontation with Pike, who will check on them every two hours, as per school regulation.

He is just beginning to get comfortable in the hard wooden chair when he hears a loud snapping sound behind him. The sound continues, and first Chekov turns to look, then Spock and Uhura. He keeps staring straight ahead, letting the others check it out first, deciding if it's worth his while. Finally he turns his head, eyes open wide with mocking amazement.

"You keep eating your hand and you won't be hungry for lunch..."

The green girl spits a fingernail at him, which earns her a bit of his attention and respect.

"I've seen you before," he says. It's a compliment, telling people he's noticed them. Or a threat. But this time he means it as a compliment. No one is paying attention now, though. The green girl has gone back to her solemn meal of fingernails, and Chekov's repeating "who am I?" like the answer's going to drop down from heaven or some shit. The kid is really getting on Kirk's nerves, acting like all of this matters somehow, so he stares hard and watches, satisfied, as the kid gives a little nervous laugh. Chekov pauses for a moment, searching for a way to make it look like he was genuinely distracted instead of scared shitless by Kirk, so he starts peeling off his jacket. And Jim, because he's bored and there's nothing better to do, starts pulling off his coat just so he can see what the kid's made of. Sure enough, Chekov pauses with his jacket dangling awkwardly around his elbows, then shrugs it back on and rubs his hands together as if he'd suddenly decided he was cold. He feels a little sorry for the kid, and even sorrier for himself because this is fucking boring and if they were going to assign him detention, they at least could've had the decency to put someone challenging in the room with him.

Luckily, he's never been the sort to dwell on what he doesn't have. Maybe everyone in here is boring, but at least one person is hot. She isn't paying attention to him right now, but he can change that. He flings his padd toward her head, being careful to aim just a little too high. It cuts through the air with a satisfying whoosh, but Uhura barely even flinches. She doesn't even bother to look up. That's all right though. He hasn't even come close to exhausting his tricks.

"Nah nah nah nah...nah nah nah nah," he sings, deliberately out of tune. He has perfect pitch, actually, but he doesn't advertise that.

"I can't _believe_ I'm here," she mutters, disgust dripping from every syllable. It's progress.

"Oh shit!" he shouts, putting as much genuine shock and fear into his voice he can muster. "What are we supposed to do if we have to take a piss?"

" _Please_ ," she hisses, and he knows he's got her now.

"If you gotta go..." He unzips his fly. "...You gotta go!" he finishes triumphantly.   
Now they're _all_ looking at him.

"This is not an appropriate place for urination," Spock says.

"Don't talk! Don't talk! It makes it crawl back up!" Kirk squawks.

"If you remove your member from your pants, I will take physical action to prevent you from soiling the floor."

Kirk gasps. "You're pretty sexy when you get angry." He offers a mock tiger growl to finish it off, then turns to Chekov before Spock can react.

"What say you close the door and we'll get the ice queen here...impregnated?" The threat is low, even for him. He doesn't touch girls who don't want to be touched; it's wrong, and besides, he has enough willing partners that he doesn't need to mess with girls who say no. He considers feeling guilty for a minute but decides against it: he wants to see how far he can push her and Spock both before they snap.

Spock's jaw clenches, but Uhura responds first.

"If you enjoy having your dick attached to your body, I suggest you retract that statement."

Jim greets her glare with a cocky grin. He really admires a woman who can make a threat stick without even leaving her seat, and he adds another point to her score when she turns smoothly in her chair and begins ignoring him again. He's pretty sure he can still win the game though; if he can't get her attention by bothering her, he can sure as hell get it by bothering Spock.

"Hey, Spock, what'd you do to get in here? Somebody see you showing emotion? Telling mommy you love her?"

The Vulcan's shoulders tense slightly, and when he turns around, something in his expression tells Jim that he's struck gold.

"Your frequent presence in detention does not confer the privilege of questioning my behavior."

"It's a free planet. Shouldn't you know that since daddy married a human and all?"

Spock turns, face impassive, but his eyes alight. The eyes are human, Jim thinks. He knows then that he can get him, not that he had ever really doubted it. He opens his mouth to make one last comment, but Uhura beats him to it.

"He's just doing it to wind you up."

She lays a hand lightly on Spock's arm. Jim notes this. Spock colors faintly and turns around. Jim notes this too.

"So, you guys boyfriend-girlfriend?" he asks conversationally, strolling around the table.

Uhura rolls her eyes.

"Steady dates?"

The Vulcan won't look at him.

"Lovers?" He pitches his voice low and grins lasciviously. He leans forward and puts one hand on the table on either side of Uhura.

"Level with me. Is his dick green?”

"Go to hell," Uhura says coolly.

"Your accusations are tiresome. Please find an alternative means of amusing yourself," Spock says.

Kirk surveys them silently. Uhura's doing her homework now, making a show of ignoring him, but she fidgets a little under his gaze. Her small but unwilling recognition of his presence is enough for him, he decides, and strolls away to lean on a nearby railing.

"What say we close the door? We can't have any kind of party in here if Pike can see us." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and looks at Uhura, who sneers back.

"I believe the door is to stay open," the Russian kid stammers.

"So what?" Kirk asks and watches the kid jerk back like a kicked puppy.

"Chekov's objection is relevant. The decision is not exclusively yours. Four other individuals are present in this room."

"Way to go! You can count! I knew you had to be smart to be such a... a..." He lets his jaw slacken into ape-like torpor. "...a master debater!"

"I do not believe you can credibly judge me."

"Really," Uhura sniffs.   
The attention bolsters Spock, who puffs up like Pike when he's ready to deliver an extra-stern lecture.

"You are not significant here. If you disappeared forever, it would make no difference. Indeed, you might as well not exist."

"Oooh, then I guess I'd better run out and join the debate team like you."

Uhura laughs, sharp and hard, and Spock raises an incredulous eyebrow.

"They don't take people like you. People who don't matter, I mean," Uhura says.

"Then I guess I'll just have to join the pep club and student council so I can be important like you."

"You know why guys like you knock everything? It's because you're afraid. You know you can't cut it here. You know you're a fuck up who's only here because your dad died, and everyone else knows it to.” Uhura says it like she imagines it's a scathing insult, but it's nothing Jim hasn't heard a hundred times before at home.

"Thank you. You just saved Daddy Frank a whole shitload of credits. See, I was going to get a shrink to pscyhoanalyze me, but since I have you to tell me what I'm thinking, I guess I won't have to," he fires back.

Uhura rolls her eyes.

"You're a coward."   


***

 

Gaila listens to their conversation without raising her eyes from the warp engine schematics she's sketching. The human children understand nothing of power. Each tries to prove their strength by demonstrating how little they care about the others, but their attempts to ignore each other only prove how much they desire the others' approval.

"I belong to the physics club," Chekov contributes. At least he does not hide his desire to fit in.

"You're afraid they won't take you," Uhura says to Kirk, ignoring Chekov to demonstrate her importance.

"Or it could be that you're all assholes and ice queens," Kirk fires back.   
Gaila yawns, but not ostentatiously in the way Kirk might have to demonstrate his boredom. She has no wish to be drawn into their petty power struggle.

"I'm also on the mathletics team," Chekov says. Importance is out of his reach, so he struggles for relevance.

"'Scuse me a second," Kirk says, turning his stare to Chekov, who flinches slightly. "What are you babbling about?"

"I...I said I was in the physics club...and the mathletics team." Now that he has finally attracted the attention of the more powerful group members, he does not know what to do. He fears they will unite and turn their strength on him. It is a novice mistake; Gaila learned the hard way that if you are weak, you must not draw the others' attention.

"What do you guys do in your club?" Kirk asks brightly. Gaila can tell he's faking enthusiasm, but Chekov does not sense the trap.

"Well, ah...we talk about physics...the properties of physics, yes." He leans forward eagerly, basking in the scraps of attention. Gaila wonders if she should bother helping him if they spring on him.

"So it's social, right? Demented and sad, but also sort of social?"

"Yes. I guess you could consider it a social situation. I mean there are other children in my club and uh, at the end of the year we have, um, you know, a big banquet, at the, uh, at the Hilton."

"So you get loaded, you party?"

"I am not familiar with this expression loaded. But we...ah...get dressed up. Is this loaded?"

Uhura turns to Kirk, looking as if she's smelled something disgusting.

"Only assholes like you get loaded."

"And, ah, I didn't have any shoes, so I had to borrow my dad's. Only my mom hates for me to borrow my dad's. She thinks it's gross, wearing someone else's shoes. And my cousin Dmitri, ah, came in from Siberia, but he did not feel like he belonged here..."

"Kind of like you." Chekov wilts for a moment, then rejuvenates when he sees Uhura is talking to Kirk.

"Excuse me, but if you persist in your loquacity, Pike will investigate. I am scheduled to compete in a debate tournament next weekend, and I would prefer not to miss it due to your conversation."

Kirk moans in fake agony.

"Missing a whole debate tournament? However will you cope?"

"You persist in mocking me when you have no credible claim to judge me. You have not engaged in a single competitive activity at this school,” Spock says cooly.

Footsteps sound outside the door, and Gaila suppresses a snort when all of them immediately go silent and retreat to their chairs. Each pretends to be so powerful, yet they are so easily cowed. Gaila could kill them all with her bare hands, even Pike. For a moment, she considers telling them the precise points she would press to still their breathing, but then she remembers she cares nothing for their attention.   


***

 

Pike pauses outside the library door and hears voices inside. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose in a gesture that has become almost automatic since his assignment here. The students are not to speak in detention; the rules are clear on that. But this is not a starship, and the rules here are petty attempts to enforce discipline, not essential regulations designed to save lives. None of it matters. He walks past.

In the restroom, which he has finally stopped referring to as "the head," he inspects himself in the mirror. He does not look like himself in a suit and tie. Mentally, he counts the days until he can return to space, and prays that today at least, the kids will be smart enough not to do something that he's obligated to notice.

If there are gods, they're not listening. The library door is closed when he steps out of the bathroom, and that infraction is too big to ignore. He really hopes that they haven't sealed it shut because if he has to get an engineer out here to unstick a fucking door...

It hisses open as soon as he arrives in front of it, sparing him the necessity of completing the threat. Which is a mixed blessing really, since now he is forced into yet another meaningless confrontation with Jim Kirk.

"Who closed the door?" He looks at Kirk but does not name him directly; making assumptions will not do, and besides, he wants to know if this is a crew that sticks together or one that turns its members in.

"I think the computer malfunctioned, sir." Kirk's voice is unctuous, his hands folded in front of him with mocking sincerity.

Pike makes eye contact with them one by one, daring them to turn Kirk in.

"The door inexplicably closed, sir," Spock offers. "As you had forbidden us to leave our seats, we naturally were unable to investigate the cause."

Pike mentally readjusts his impression of Spock. The Vulcan kid obviously wanted into Starfleet, even if he wouldn't say it, but Pike had quietly encouraged him toward the Vulcan Science Academy. An officer with no emotion at all was a liability, but this small demonstration of solidarity showed some promise. But he is too aware of the mechanics of command to let himself be distracted for too long; he needs to find and punish the perpetrator before the students lose their belief in his authority.

"Who?" he asks, staring hard at the Orion girl in the back. She responds with a series of clicks in a pirate dialect that are probably imprecations on his parentage and his manhood, but he's sure as hell not bothering to find out. He's already let one kid get under his skin today; he's not making the same mistake twice.

He considers asking Chekov, but he knows the kid will tell, and that will just make his life more awkward and painful here than it already is. He was the captain of the _Yorktown_ for ten years before he came here; he can handle a single insolent teenager without informants to help.

"Tell me how you did it," he says, taking a step toward Kirk.

"Sir, I know this might be hard to believe, but the world is an imperfect place. Doors malfunction all the time."

But Pike is ignoring him, already striding toward the door to see if he can fix it. As soon as he pries off the control panel, he sees that the wire connected to the opening mechanism has been removed.   
"Wires don't vanish by accident," he says. "Give it to me, Kirk."

"I told you that I don't have it."

"With all due respect, sir, why would he steal a wire?" Uhura asks.

The answer to that question is so bitingly obvious that he ignores it completely in favor of demanding that Spock come to repair the door.

"Sir, I do not believe the door is reparable. The circuitry utilized by the school is a very unusual alloy which cannot be replaced by routinely available spare parts. While I could remove wiring from one of our padds, it would likely damage the system further."

If this had been the _Yorktown_ , he would have known for sure whether Spock was shitting him; there wasn't a bolt or wire on that ship he didn't know by heart. Knowing the schematics of a school in the middle of Iowa had hardly seemed worth his time, though, a fact which he now regrets. He'd like to tell Spock to try fixing it anyway, but the risk of an electrocuted Vulcan is sadly not worth the potential pay-off, especially when other alternatives are available. Command 101: if your crew revolts, give them the opposite of what they wanted. They wanted secrecy; he'd repay them with surveillance.

"Very well, the door stays closed," he says. "I'll just be back to check every thirty minutes from now on."

"Suck my dick," Kirk mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Pike to hear.

Inwardly, Pike closes his eyes and groans. Truth be told, he wants out of this library just as badly as they want him out, but Jim Kirk can't fucking let him go.

"You just bought yourself another Saturday, Kirk." He hopes the tiredness in his voice doesn't show.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kirk says.

"And one more after that."

“I think I'm free,” Kirk says, “just let me check my calendar.”

He begins to remove a comm unit – which he was supposed to have checked in with security – from his pocket, and Pike is obliged now to punish him for the additional violation.

“That's one more detention, Mr. Kirk.” He should try to confiscate the phone, but that will only cause a physical altercation. “Are we through?”

He desperately hopes so.

“No!” Kirk shouts. He doesn't look angry; in fact, he looks alive, even gleeful.

Pike plants his hands on the table, one on each side of Kirk. He leans in close and speaks very, very quietly.

“Mr. Kirk, if you are not careful, I will have you in detention for the rest of your natural-born days. Now I will ask you one more time, do you want another detention?”

Kirk looks back at him with equal frankness.

“Yessir.”

“Then you've got it.”

“Do you really think I give a shit?”

Now Pike can feel the anger building inside him, pounding inside his skull and throbbing in his temples.

“That's another right there!”

“Cut it out!” Uhura cries, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her mouthing 'stop it' to Kirk. The anger inside eases just a little. Just enough for him to remember that he is in control of the situation, not Kirk, and it's a mistake to keep asking the kid if he wants more. He straightens up and backs away.

“You're not fooling anyone here, Kirk, except maybe yourself. Unless you aim to be the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest, you might spend a little less time impressing others and a little more time making something of yourself.”

He sees the answer forming on Kirk's lips but doesn't give him a chance to speak. Instead, he shifts his attention to his remaining students, all of whom are staring at him raptly.

“I'm going to be right outside that door. Do not give me another reason to come in.”

***

Kirk screams, “Fuck you!” the second the door closes behind Pike.

Gaila doesn't react. For once, neither does anyone else.

The chronometer says 0745.

Kirk lights his shoe on fire with an old-fashioned chrome-plated lighter and lights a cigarette with that. Gaila wants to know where he'd gotten one of those – he must have good contacts – but she shifts her gaze away from him a second before he notices she's looking.

She watches Uhura, who pretends not to notice that she is being watched.

She watches Spock arrange styluses on his desk in exactly parallel lines.

Chekov adjusts his balls; Kirk extinguishes his shoe and strums an imaginary guitar.

Gaila draws an Orion freighter on the table top, then a Federation starship behind it. She wonders whose side she's on, but she can't answer, so she erases the whole thing.

They all fall asleep together.

***

Pike stares at his students, rubbing sleep out of his own eyes.

“Wake up!” he shouts. “Who needs to use the head?”

Everyone raises their hands.

He tries to imagine the letter he will write to One at the end of the day and can't imagine sending it.

“Dear Captain One, today I got in a shouting match with a sixteen-year-old, and then I took my students for a pee. Did you kill any Romulans today?”

He watches them file into the bathroom one by one. Their detention will end at five this evening; his lasts another year and a half.

***

At 10:22, Kirk decides he's had enough of sitting still and swipes an antique book from the paper section of the library. It's locked, or rather, it _was_ locked, but that hadn't been a problem for him since he was seven. Now he's sitting on the librarian's desk next to a plaque that says Mrs. Van Landingham and a sign that says “librarians are novel lovers.” The thought of Mrs. Van's large, floppy breasts slapping against her no-doubt-unattractive husband rids Jim of the last vestiges of his guilt, and he rips out a page of the book.

The sound of tearing paper shatters the silence of the library, and Spock, Uhura, and Chekov stare. Gaila does not, which is annoying, but Jim figures he has enough of an audience to continue.

“Reading is so much fun!” He rips out another page of the book and watches it float toward the floor. “Mollett really turns me on!”

“That book is an _antique_!” Uhura snaps. She covers the distance between them in long strides and snatches the book from his hands. “And it's pronounced _Mol-yer_.”

She articulates each syllable carefully, just to prove she's better than him. She's not; Jim speaks Spanish fluently, and he'd memorized a French and a Vulcan dictionary in detention last week. He just doesn't advertise his linguistic skills like she does. Unless it will get him laid.

“Will you say it again?” he asks, mock pleading. He likes watching her lips wrap around the French syllables.

But Uhura ignores him. She's walking back to her table with a roll of tape, muttering, “I think I can fix this.”

Jim follows her.

“You grounded tonight?” he asks.

“My father tried. He failed.”

That's kind of interesting, but Spock beats him to the follow-up question.

“I understand that Samuel Stebbins is hosting a large party tonight while his parents attend a diplomatic event on Mars.”

“Really?”

Jim listens for a hint of sarcasm in Uhura's voice, but there isn't one.

“Could you attend?”

Jim isn't jealous. No way. He's just mad that someone like _Spock_ is putting the moves on a hot girl before he did. It doesn't matter anyway; Uhura is pursing her lips and shaking her head.

“I doubt it. Things between my parents are tense right now. I don't like to leave my little sister home alone when they're fighting.”

This time, Jim beats Spock to the follow up question.

“Who do you like better?”

“ _What_?”

Jim articulates each syllable slowly and clearly, the same way Uhura had said Moliere's name.

“Do you like your father better than your mother?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Uhura says, but he can tell from her eyes that the remark hit home. She's been thinking about it, who she's going to live with when the big fight comes and mommy moves out of the house and gets a lawyer.

“Your questions are intrusive,” Spock says.

Jim grabs a chair and pulls it up next to Spock.

Striking a listening pose, he asks, “Do you get along with _your_ parents, Mr. Spock?”

“Regardless of how I answer this question, you will insult me.”

Jim steeples his fingers in front of him and says, “Most perceptive, Spock,” in his best imitation of a Vulcan. Then he flashes him a patented Jim Kirk grin. “And if you say you get along with your parents, I'll call you a liar.”

Jim stands up and slides his borrowed chair neatly back to its place at a neighboring table, looking for his next target. He's about to make a smart-ass remark to the green girl, just to see if he can catch her off guard, which is why he's so surprised when he almost trips. _Almost_. He catches himself before anyone else can notice, but when he looks down he sees Spock's foot placed ever-so-casually in the aisle. He looks at Spock, expecting him to try and cover it up, but the Vulcan only looks at him blandly. Jim calculates. It's too early in the day for a fight; he's got to save that for when he's really bored. Besides, he doesn't think the others saw him trip, so it's not like his reputation is on the line. He settles for backing away and pointing his middle finger at the floor, then tilting it slowly upward.

“You get that, Mr. Spock?”

He's curious how Spock will react, but the dumb Chekov kid jumps between them almost immediately, spewing verbal diarrhea as if that would really stop him from beating Spock to a pulp if he wanted to

“You guys, I do not get along with my parents either. They do not have, how do you say, compassion? Or understanding?”

Maybe he's not trying to stop a fight, Jim realizes. Maybe he's just trying to feel a tiny bit less lonely in the world. But if that's the case, acting weak and pathetic is not the way to go about it, and the sooner the kid figures that out, the better his life will be.

“Dork,” he says, “you are a parent's wet dream.”

Then he looks away, but Chekov's still talking.

“I know. That is the problem, okay?”

“No,” Jim says in a credible imitation of Pike's you-are-straining-my-patience voice. “Let's face it, you have nothing to do _except_ make mommy and Mother Russia proud.”

Chekov looks wounded, and Kirk feels guilty for a second because it's kind of like kicking a puppy. But then, why bother feeling sorry for Chekov when he has noble protectors like Spock to defend him?

“It is not necessary for you to insult everyone.”

“I'm not insulting, I'm honest,” Kirk explains patiently. “I would expect someone as logical as you to know the difference.”

Spock looks mildly irritated, which Jim finds gratifying, but riling up hot girls is much more fun than harassing Vulcans, so he turns back to Uhura.

“Are you a virgin?” he asks conversationally.

“Go to hell,” she mutters under her breath. Without bothering to look at Kirk, she presses a strip of tape down with a carefully manicured fingernail.

It's not the incandescent rage he'd been hoping for, but that's okay. He's not done yet. He bends over her table, leaning in close the way Pike had during their last confrontation.

“I'll bet a million credits and my dad's 1969 convertible that you are.”

Still no response, but he can feel the tension quivering between them.

“Let's end the suspense. Is it going to be a white wedding?”

“Shut up.”

Her voice could freeze the balls off a lesser man. Not Jim Kirk, though.

“Have you ever kissed a boy on the mouth?”

He's sure she has. Nobody could be that hot and not use it.

“Have you ever been felt up? Under the shirt, over the bra?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Spock flush faintly green. He leans in closer to Uhura and pitches his voice low. He wants her to imagine doing these things with him.

“Over the panties, no bra, blouse unbuttoned, jeans in a wad on the front seat after eleven on a school night?”

“Stop,” Spock says, his voice low and dangerous. Jim ambles toward him.

“You gonna make me?”

“Yes.”

Jim has to admire how intimidating that Vulcan cool is. He hadn't expected it. Not that he's really scared, of course.

“You and what army?”

“I do not require tactical support. My strength is sufficient to incapacitate you. I will demonstrate at your convenience.”

Jim looks at Uhura. She raises her eyebrows coolly. He can hear the question: what are you going to do, Jim? Chekov is staring at him too, looking half-terrified and half-excited. Kid's probably never seen a fight before. Even the green girl is looking at him out the corner of her eye. And Spock is sitting at his table, looking just as calm and bland as he does in second period physics. Like Jim's not even worth going through the etiquette of a fight for. No threats, no posturing, not even the decency to stand to make a threat. Jim can't let that slide. He lunges. The next thing he knows, Spock is on top of him, his arm is twisted behind his back, and all he can see is gray industrial carpeting.

“I don't want to get into this with you, man!” he squawks.

Not that he couldn't win, but it's not even 11:30 in the morning, and how would he occupy the rest of the day if he gets into a real fight now?

Spock lets him up. Wuss.

“Your previous statements indicated that you were quite willing to 'get into this' with me.”

Jim stands up, bouncing on his toes a little to prove that he's unharmed and eager.

“If we got into it, I'd kill you,” he says conversationally. He would. After that move Spock had pulled, he wouldn't let the kid live. “And your parents are some kind of big time diplomats, and they would sue me, and it would be a whole big mess, and I don't care about you enough to bother.”

It's true. He might have told Pike a time or six that he didn't mind being the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest, but that didn't mean he wanted to do time on trumped-up assault charges for beating up some ambassador's kid.

“You are a coward,” Spock says and then walks away without even waiting for a reaction.

Jim can't have that, so he pulls out his switchblade – he thinks it was his dad's, but he can't be sure – and throws it into the chair Spock was about to sit in. The blade quivers in the wooden seat and Spock raises a single eyebrow. He walks back to Kirk and hands him the knife matter-of-factly.

“You will not talk to Miss Uhura. You will not look at her, nor will you even think about her. I consider this matter resolved.”

Spock is damn lucky that Custodian Rand picks that moment to walk in. She's hot, almost too hot to be a janitor, and just distracting enough to take Jim's attention off Spock's ridiculous order.

“Pavel, how are you doing?” she asks with a radiant smile that makes Jim a little jealous. Hot women should _always_ look at him.

“Your _mom_ works here?” Jim asks, half to remind Chekov who's in charge here and half so that he can quietly slip the switchblade back into his pocket. No use letting Pike confiscate it, especially if it had been his father's.

“Janice.” He sidles toward her, pretending he's on the prowl. “Can I ask you a question?”

Rand looks distinctly unimpressed.

“What?” she snaps.

“How does one become a janitor?”

“You interested in becoming one?”

“No, but my buddy here is very interested in pursuing the custodial arts.”

He claps Spock on the back.

Rand narrows her eyes.

“Oh really? You think I'm some untouchable peasant? A peon? Let me tell you something, Jim Kirk. I listen to your conversations, I read the notes you throw in the trash. I know you're just a pathetic little boy who can't fill your dead father's shoes. And you know what else? That chronometer is twenty minutes fast.”

***

At 11:30, Pike drags himself away from the model starship he's building and enters the library. Jim Kirk, who had been whistling a Starfleet marching tune, begins whistling a song Pike believes is associated with a twentieth-century villain known as Darth Vader.

“All right, boys and girls, time for lunch.”

“Here?” Spock asks.

When did Vulcans start asking obvious questions?

“Here.”

“I believe the cafeteria would be a more suitable place for us to eat. Sir.”

“I don't care what you think, Mr. Spock.”

“Um, Chrissy? I mean, Chris?” Pike doesn't need to look up to recognize the mockingly subservient tone of Kirk's voice. He feels a vein pop in his forehead, and he wills himself not to respond.

“I mean, Chris, will milk be available to us?”

“We are extremely thirsty, sir,” Spock says.

“I have a very low tolerance for dehydration,” Uhura adds.

“I have seen her dehydrate. It is disgusting,” Chekov says, and Kirk laughs, then looks surprised.

“I'll go get the milk, sir.” Kirk stands and salutes.

“Sit down,” Pike snaps.

“You.” He points at Spock, then surveys the rest of the crew. “And you.” He points at Gaila.

“There's a soft drink machine in the teacher's room. Let's go.”

It's not regulation, and they probably all packed their own drinks anyway. All the same, if this crew is learning to stick together, they deserve a reward, however small. Not that they'll realize that's what he's rewarding them for.

***

Nyota wipes a fingerprint from the screen of her padd with a corner of her gray cashmere sweater. Pike had disabled the network access and deleted everything except the help tutorial, which she begins translating into Klingon.

“Hey, Uhura,” Kirk says behind her. She conjugates the verb “to kill” in her head. “Wanna see a picture of a guy with elephantitis of the nuts? It's pretty tasty...”

She turns, shielding her eyes carefully from his padd. She hopes Spock and Gaila return from their errand soon; she doesn't think she can endure Kirk by herself.

“I hope you choke to death on your own saliva,” she says in Klingon, then resumes translating her help tutorial. She wishes she had a Klingon example to work from; right now, she's choosing the most polite words she can manage, but she wonders if the Klingons prefer straight commands. Possibly laced with death threats.

“I wonder how he rides a bike,” Kirk says behind her.

She ignores him.

“Would you date someone like that?” he asks.

Nyota writes _there are several ways to search the documents folder_ in Klingon.

“I mean, if he was...”

“ _Were_ ,” she snaps without looking up. “It's a hypothetical, so use the subjunctive.”

“Okay. If he _were_ a good dancer and had a great personality and a cool car... Of course, you'd probably have to ride in the backseat because his nuts would take up the whole front.”

She refuses to turn around. Absolutely refuses.

“Could you please leave me alone?”

 _Use the keypad to type the document name into the search bar_ , she writes. _Then press the “go” button to begin searching._ This is the most boring day of her entire life.

“Hey, Uhura, if you could be anywhere, doing anything right now, what would it be?”

That's actually a decent question, and she's about to answer when Kirk says, “Careful what you say though. Pasha here is a cherry.”

“I am not a cherry.”

“When have you ever gotten laid?”

“I have laid lots of times.”

“Name one.”

“At Niagara Falls, I met a girl.”

“Ever laid anyone around here?”

Nyota is doing her best to ignore them because she has as much interest in their sex lives as she does in eating _ptagh_ , but the next thing she hears Kirk say is, “Oh, so you've done it with Uhura here?” She spins around so fast her stylus drops to the floor.

“ _What_?”

Chekov turns a livid shade of red. Kirk leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “Well, Chekov here assures me that in addition to a number of girls in the Niagara Falls area, he is presently boning you.”

“You know he's lying right? Please, Nyo-- I mean, Miss Uhura, I am very afraid of you and would not say...”

“I swear on my father's grave that when I asked if he laid anyone around here, he pointed at you.”

“His father has no grave. Please do not believe him.”

“Were you or were you not pointing at Uhura?”

“I... Yes, yes I was pointing at Miss Uhura. I am sorry. It is only because I did not wish you to know I was virgin.”

Chekov looks so pathetic that Uhura laughs.

“Why didn't you want me to know you were a virgin?”

“Because it is my personal business. My personal, private business.”

“Well, Chekov, it doesn't sound like you're doing any business,” Kirk says.

“I think it's okay for a guy to be a virgin.” She glares at Kirk. “The galaxy could use fewer testosterone-driven douchebags.”

Chekov beams. Kirk looks disappointed. Nyota feels like she's won.

***

Gaila removes her lunch brown paper lunch bag from beneath her seat. It comes from the Youth Shelter's cafeteria, and she has no choice about what is inside it.

Spock throws her a can of soda, a gesture she had not expected since they had not spoken at all on their errand to the vending machine. She catches it without looking. Kirk looks impressed, but she doesn't look at him. She knows she could best him in a physical fight, but she doesn't want to risk a verbal exchange.

Lunch is a hierarchical ritual, she knows. What each student brings reveals her personality, her economic class, her family life... Gaila had inspected her fellow students' lunches when she realized this, and then she stopped coming to the cafeteria. Today she opens her soda can to avoid revealing her own food in such close quarters. Allowing others to see how much she has to eat contravenes years of training. The soda fizzes out of the top of the can and spreads across the desk, and she slurps it up, the better not to waste. The others stare, and she stares back until they look away. They fear her because she does not care about their opinions.

“Hey, Uhura, what's in the bag?” Kirk asks.

Uhura carries small, silver-gray shopping bag, embossed with the logo of an expensive department store. An elegant – and unnecessary – way to communicate her family's wealth. From it, she removes a plastic tray of sushi, a tiny bottle of soy sauce, and a pair of red and gold chopsticks that make Gaila wish she owned something that pretty.

Kirk has no lunch. Spock's is like hers, a sandwich, fruit, and a cup of pudding. She removes the meat from her sandwich and tosses it in the air, where it lands with a splat on a statue of George Kirk. No one notices; Kirk is too busy staring at Spock, and the rest are waiting for the inevitable confrontation to unfold. She opens a small box of sugary cereal she had stolen from the school cafeteria and two purple pixie stix she had swiped from another student's bag. She pours these onto her bread with a layer of tortilla chips in the middle. It isn't Orion food, but it's as close as she will ever come in Iowa.

Kirk is still staring at Spock's lunch.

“What is your problem?” Spock asks.

Kirk darts to the next table to inspect Chekov's bag. Coward, Gaila thinks. Kirk always chooses the easy target.“What're we having?” he asks.

“It is a standard lunch. Very American,” Chekov answers because he still prefers being teased and humiliated to being ignored.

Kirk removes a thermos. “Milk?”

“Soup.”

Kirk pulls a carton of juice from the bag like the ones the smaller children at the shelter drink.

“That's apple juice,” Chekov supplies.

“I can read.”

Chekov reaches toward the bag, but Kirk slaps his hand. Chekov doesn't fight back.

“Peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off...a cup of oranges... Well, Pasha, this is a very nutritious meal. All the food groups are represented. Who did your mother marry, Mr. Rogers?”

“No, Mr. Johnson, actually. She met him here in Iowa.”

Uhura smiles. Gaila can't tell if she's laughing at Chekov or with Chekov. Maybe a little of both.

Kirk stands and stretches, like he's preparing for something big.

“Here's my impression of life in little Pasha's house.” In a deep voice, he says, “Hello, son! How was your day?” He changes his voice to a high-pitched squeal. “Swell, Dad, how was yours?” The deep voice again. “Super, son! Hey, how would you like to go fishing this weekend?”

“Stop it!” Chekov's face is turning red. “I do not call my stepfather 'Dad'. He is not my father.”

Gaila watches, intrigued. She wants to know if Chekov can really stand up for himself, and whether human families are really like what Kirk was describing. But unlike Chekov, she knows better than to reveal her weaknesses to Kirk, who now looks like a predator closing in on prey.

“What's your family like, then?” Uhura asks before Kirk can say anything cruel.

Kirk's smile looks a little jagged.

“That's easy.” He slumps in his chair and mimes holding a remote control in one hand and a drink in the other. “You stupid, worthless, no good, know-it-all, asshole, jerk stepson!” he says, slurring the words a little. Then, in a high-pitched voice, he adds, “I'm sorry, Jimmy, he doesn't mean it. If you just wouldn't upset him like that...”

Kirk stands up and ambles forward, his face looking oddly intent. He reaches out and pretends he's his stepfather hitting him.

“Fuck you!” he shouts with every strike. “Fuck you!”

“Is that real?” Chekov whispers.

“You wanna come over sometime?”

“I do not believe you. It is part of the image you have created for yourself,” Spock says.

Kirk looks hurt, and Gaila would think it was a ploy except for the pain is in his eyes and she doesn't think he could fake that. He ambles toward Spock and rolls up his sleeve to reveal a fat, round burn that looks like the one Gaila has on the inside of her thigh.

“Do you believe this, huh? That's what you get when you spill paint in the garage when Frank is home and Mommy is off planet.”

He begins to walk away.

“I don't think I need to sit around with you assholes anymore!”

He jumps on top of a table, grabs the railing of the second floor balcony, and swings himself over.

“You shouldn't have said that,” Uhura hisses, loud enough for them to here but not so loud it will reach the balcony.

“It was logical to believe that he was lying. James Kirk often lies for effect.”

The rest of them are silent.

***

Pike eats his lunch at 12:00 p.m., the exact midpoint of the day. His thermos is silver and embossed with images of old NX class starships; he's had it since he was ten. When he tilts it to pour coffee into his mug (technically the property of the _Yorktown_ ), the lid falls off and a torrent of scalding coffee rains onto his desk.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. “Motherfucking shit.”

He pretends not to notice the five students slipping past his office door. At least they're sticking together.

***

Pavel does not understand why they have left the library. They have been told to stay in the library. It is the first rule of detention.

Uhura was the first to follow Kirk out. Pavel does not understand this either, but maybe it is for the same reason that he hates James Kirk but keeps talking to him anyway.

“How do you know where Pike is?” Uhura is asking. Pavel thinks this is a very important question. Perhaps Pike is in his office, but perhaps he is in the lavatory, or getting a drink of water, or inspecting the science and engineering labs...

“I don't.”

Uhura looks as scandalized as Pavel feels.

“Then how do you know when he'll be back?”

“I don't.” Kirk flashes the broad grin Pavel has seen him use on women with great effect. “Being bad feels good, doesn't it?”

This time Uhura smiles back. Pavel's stomach clenches, but Spock's presence beside him makes him feel reassured. If Spock has left the library, he must have a logical reason, right?

“Why are we going to Kirk's locker?” Pavel asks.

“I do not know.”

“But this is stupid, right? We are risking getting caught, for what?”

Spock seems unconcerned.

“I do not know.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

“I have told you repeatedly, I do not know. If you did not wish to come, you should not have. Please stop asking questions.”

They arrive in front of Kirk's locker, which Pavel thinks will make him feel better. At least now they are finished with their journey, and they can go back to the library soon. Then he sees what Kirk retrieved from his locker. Six metal cans, joined together by recyclable plastic rings.

“Beer!” He exclaims before he can stop himself. “He has beer!”

He knows that some teenagers consume alcohol, of course. He has seen it in holovids, and in Russia, where his cousins drink vodka with their dinner. But in this part of the planet, it is illegal to drink alcoholic beverages before the age of 18, and Pavel does not partake.

“He has alcohol _at school_.” The idea is almost impossible to comprehend. Kirk is removing large bottles of clear liquid from his locker now. Alcohol and school. The two do not mix.

“Please return those to your locker,” Spock says.

Kirk shakes his head and saunters down the hall. Uhura follows, looking contemptuous, and Spock walks quickly to catch up with her. Now it is only him and Gaila. Normally, she frightens him, but now he is too shocked to be afraid.

“Do you approve of this?” he asks.

Gaila clicks a few words of Orion in response, and Chekov darts toward the rest of the group. From the corner of his eye, he sees Gaila caress the lock on Kirk's locker. She slips it reverently into her pocket, and Pavel pretends not to notice.

***

Jim surveys his crew. Uhura looks angry, Chekov looks worried, and the Orion girl looks stunned. Spock is disappointingly expressionless. But they're all following him, which is a good feeling. He beckons them with his hand, and they crowd around close.

“We're going to cross through the science labs, then double back through the library.” He whispers even though he's sure Pike's nowhere close enough to hear them.

“I hope that you are correct. If Pike catches us, it will be your fault.”

“Trust me. It'll work.”

He winks. Uhura smiles. The science lab is way out of their way and probably locked, but they don't have to know that. He's having way too much fun to go back to the library, and so are they.

Pike almost catches them at the end of the astrophysics hall, but Spock has special Vulcan hearing or some shit, and they run they opposite direction. Chekov gets in the lead somehow – lots of experience running away from bullies, Kirk guesses – and whistles and motions them toward the language lab. He thinks that's exactly the direction Pike was going, but then, that's the point. Leading your crew into danger is fun, and leading them out of it makes you look like a hero. It's a good game, and he keeps it going for half an hour, till he realizes that Pike is probably headed back to the library to check on them.

“Come one,” he stage whispers. “We have to go back to through the cafeteria.”

Spock shakes his head.

“Going through the activities hall is more efficient.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“No, it is you who does not know what you're talking about. You have been leading us on an extremely circuitous route.”

Kirk sees the warning look in Spock's eyes. He knew exactly what Jim was up to. But he followed anyway, which was a cool feeling.

“We are finished listening to you. We are going to the activities hall now,” Spock says. He walks away, and the others follow. Uhura shoots him an apologetic look, but the others don't even look back. Jim stands there for a moment, feeling cheated and a little bereft. That asshole stole my crew, he thinks. His first impulse is to strike off in the opposite direction, but for once in his life, he doesn't feel like being alone, so he jogs a little to catch up...which means that he's there when Spock leads them to a corridor blocked by a forcefield and a sign that says NO STUDENT ACCESS in three Federation languages.

“Fuck,” Uhura says.

Kirk smiles, but he makes sure to wipe it off his face before she turns around.

“Why didn't you listen to Jim?” she asks.

“When did you begin addressing him by his first name?” Spock asks. Uhura rolls her eyes.

“We're dead,” Chekov whispers.

“No,” Kirk says. “Just me.”

He thinks he feels his chest puff out a little. He's a captain sacrificing himself for his crew. He thrusts the beer into Chekov's hands and the liquor into Gaila's.

“Take care of these for me,” he says, mock-dramatic. He looks around at his crew. “And take care of them.”

Then he runs down the corridor toward Pike's distant figure, singing, “Can't stand it, I know you planned it...”

***

Pike catches Kirk in the gym, where he's throwing basketballs through the hoop with remarkable accuracy, considering that Pike has never seen him participate in any team activity, athletic or otherwise.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Kirk says, tossing him a mock salute. “I hope you don't mind my being here. I know it's not regulation and all. But see, sir, I'm planning to go out for a basketball scholarship, so I hoped you'd be understanding.”

“You could, you know,” Pike says.

Kirk doesn't have a comeback to that, just blinks and looks surprised.

“I can see it's been a long time since anyone's told you something like that. But it's true. You could go out for a basketball scholarship. You'd probably get it. I imagine you could do anything you wanted to.”

Kirk smirks.

“Right, Chrissy. You can cut the touchy-feely crap anytime you like.”

He hurls the ball right at Pike's midsection, but Pike catches it in mid-air and tosses it neatly onto the rack at the side of the gym.

“Takes a lot more than that to catch me off-guard, kid.”

“Right. Your illustrious Starfleet career and all. Must be quite a let-down, being a high school principal. You must have really pissed off the brass if they sent you all the way down here. What'd you do? Lose the ship? Somebody die on your watch? Somebody special?”

“Yeah, a lot of people. Not all at once, but they were all special.”

“That's very touching, Chris.” Kirk places a hand over his heart. “I think I might just turn my life around. Thank _god_ you were here to say that to me. I mean, nobody's ever tried to connect with me before, step into my dead father's shoes, give me the role model I need and deserve...”

Kirk removes his hand from his chest and rubs his hands together, as if wiping away something dirty.

“Well, now that we're done with our little heart-to-heart, what's it going to be? Another week of detention? Community service? Push-ups?”

He drops to the floor and begins doing one-armed push-ups.

“Just tell me how many, sir!”

“Dammit, Jim, I don't enjoy this. You think I _want_ to punish you every day?”

Kirk stands up, his eyes strangely unreadable.

“You know, that's what Daddy Frank always said too.”

He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, looking oddly defeated.

“I'll just go and get my things from the library.”

In the end, Pike puts him the janitor's closet because he has no idea what else to do with him. There's a light in there, at least, and some cardboard boxes to sit on. He tosses Jim one of the padds he'd passed out this morning.

“Go on, Kirk, tell me who you are. I dare you.”

He closes the door and realizes ten minutes later he ought to have checked the ceiling for a maintenance hatch.

***

“Where do you think Jim is?” Nyota asks Spock when they return to the library, chests heaving.

“I do not know,” he replies stiffly. “Leaving the library was his choice. He must face the consequences.”

“You went with him. And don't say it was just to supervise. Admit it. You like breaking the rules once in awhile too.”

She smiles at Spock, but he's already writing a physics problem on his padd and doesn't notice. She returns the Klingon translation of her padd's help guide, but it's no use. She feels wild and awake, just like she had when she'd crashed the linguistics conference with her fake ID.

“Hey, Chekov, wanna learn some Klingon pick-up lines?” she asks.

“Absolutely!” he replies, beaming. His puppy-like eagerness is cute, especially when she compares it with Spock's stoicism and Kirk's cynicism.

“Okay, repeat after me. _Now that I have slain my enemies, let us mate,_ ” Nyota says slowly and clearly, savoring the harsh Klingon syllables on her tongue.

“This is irresponsible,” Spock whispers to her. “He would be killed if he said that to a Klingon.”

“If anyone understood him,” she whispers back.

“ _Now that I have slain my enemies, let us mate_ ,” Chekov repeats solemnly – and unintelligibly – in Klingon.

And then Jim Kirk falls through the ceiling.

“You're an idiot,” she says, even though she's kind of happy to see him. “How many more detentions do you want to serve?”

She still helps him up, and doesn't think about the little electric jolt she gets when she feels his big hand wrapped around hers.

“Pike is coming,” Spock says. “I believe he may have heard your entrance.”

“The entire galaxy heard your entrance,” Chekov says. “We're all dead. Again.”

“Not if I can help it,” Nyota says as she pushes Jim under the table seconds before Pike bursts into the room.

“What was that noise?”

“What noise?” Spock asks blandly. Nyota shoots him a small, grateful smile. She's glad he's still part of their crew, even if he doesn't like Kirk very muc.

“You know what noise. One of you made it.”

“Could you describe the noise, sir?” Chekov asks.

“You'll watch your mouth, young man.”

Kirk sits up under the table. His head thunks loudly against the wood, followed by a groan.

“What was that?” Pike snaps.

“Banged my shin on the table leg,” Nyota says at the same time Spock says, “I believe I am experiencing indigestion from lunch.”

Nyota feels Jim's head brush against her knee and realizes suddenly why he had sat up. She can positively _feel_ him looking at her panties. Heat rises to her cheeks and she snaps her legs shut only to discover Kirk's head between them. She shrieks. Gaila shrieks too, a wild and high-pitched keen that obliterates Nyota's tiny squeak. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing up, but she has to admit it's a fabulous distraction.

“Was that the noise you heard, sir?” Gaila asks.

Pike's face looks oddly pale beneath his suntan.

“No, it was not.” He fixes them all with a captain's stare one by one. Nyota blanches. “You know what the first lesson of Starfleet is? _Obey_. In space, people's lives depend on it. Each one of you have said you want a Starfleet career, and if you thinking breaking petty rules makes you brave, not a single one of you is fit for it. I might not have caught you this time, but I will. Prove to me that you can do better.”

Nyota feels guilty in spite of herself. Pike might not have the best rapport with his students, but she knows that he works hard here, and she hates the feeling that she let him down. Heat flushes over her cheeks, and she doesn't dare meet Pike's eyes.

Not that her guilt distracts her for long. As soon as the door closes behind Pike, she drags Kirk from under the table by his hair and slaps him as hard as she can.

“You must have some practice at that,” Kirk says, clutching his right cheek, where the vivid red outline of Nyota's hand is glowing.

She does, but it's not his business.

“I hope your penis turns green and rots off,” she snaps.

Kirk holds up his hands.

“Sorry. You're too hot not to look.”

He turns away from her because he's a coward and looks at Chekov.

“Hey, Chekov, do you still have it?”

“The beer? Yes, it is in between my legs, where Pike could not see!”

He hands the cans to Kirk, who looks faintly revolted.

“Thanks, man. I, uh, knew I could count on you.”

Kirk waves the cans in the air, where they gleam silver and blue in the light.

“Who wants to come with?” He's already ambling toward the balcony.

“We are not drinking alcohol here,” Spock says, but Gaila stands up dreamily and follows Kirk up the stairs. Chekov shrugs his shoulders and walks after them.

Nyota smooths her skirt and settles back into her seat; she's not letting Pike – or herself – down again today. The next sentence of her translation is _if you cannot find the correct document, double check your spelling and try again._ Pike's essay prompt glows at the bottom of the screen: who do you think you are? She wants to be a Starfleet officer; she's known that almost from the time she was born. But she does not want to spend her life blindly following rules. She stands up.

“Sorry,” she says to Spock and walks toward the balcony.

***

Now that the others have gone upstairs, the library is silent. Spock is grateful; their absence will allow him to complete his physics homework as well as this morning's assignment. He considers Pike's question: who do you think you are? It is a worthy essay topic. In light of his infraction, careful examination of his character is necessary.

“Before last week, I believed myself to be a logical individual with a strong sense of integrity,” he writes. The truth is difficult to face. Laughter drifts down from the balcony, and he resists the urge to turn and examine what is happening. The purpose of detention is punishment. Being punished is logical because they have all violated school rules. Therefore, turning detention into a party is logically contradictory and perhaps morally impermissible. Consumption of prohibited substances is also illegal. Furthermore, he has completed satisfactory academic work in the face much greater distractions than distant laughter. Why, then, should he find it so difficult to focus on his assignment?

The answer arrives without much reflection: he desires their companionship. He is the only half-human, half-Vulcan in the universe. Though he strives to rise above emotional desires like “fitting in,” they are undeniable. Racing through the hallways under Kirk's command, he had felt as though he were a part of a group. The sensation had been agreeable. There is no shame in acknowledging emotions, he reminds himself. The shame is only in acting upon them.

If a shuttlecraft leaves Titan Starbase 1 traveling at one-half impulse speed and another leaves Charon Spaceport at full impulse speed, and both are traveling along the same trajectory, where will their courses intersect? Spock solves the problem easily in his head but writes down the equation because it is required by their instructor.

He looks back at his essay. Who am I? The question has plagued him for his entire life. He erases the sentence he had written before and writes, “I am a child of two worlds.” Then he walks up the stairs. He had worried that the group would no longer accept him now that he has criticized their actions and refused to participate, but they scoot together to make room for him in their circle. Someone hands him a can of beer, which he drinks in one gulp.

“I believe the expression 'I have some catching up to do' is appropriate here,” he says, and extends a hand toward the pile of beer cans on the floor.

James Kirk slaps him on the back and hands him another drink.

“Welcome to the team.”

***

Two hours later, Spock is playing truth or dare. He had prudently arranged to be the last to offer the required question or challenge, but now it is his turn. The game is so illogical he finds it difficult to grasp, even in his inebriated state. He has no desire to watch a classmate do something stupid, much less demand it of a friend. Unfamiliar with the emotional nuances of conversation, he cannot generate a question that strikes the right balance between scandalous and cruel. His silence stretches so long that Chekov begins to fidget beside him, which Spock interprets as a sign of nervousness. He considers his classmates' persistent attempts to belittle their younger colleague and selects the most innocuous question he can summon.

“Truth. What is your middle name?”

“ _Lame_ ,” Uhura says, and Spock observes that she can roll her eyes in a uniquely scathing way.

“I am quite interested in middle names. Vulcans do not have them.”

This much is true. While he had deliberately chosen a mundane question, he has found that human middle names reveal an unusual wealth of familial history.

“Andreivich,” Gaila calls from the bottom of the stairs, where she has taken her drink and several of Kirk's cigarettes. Like him, she is an outsider among humans, yet she does not seem to desire their companionship. Spock would like to discuss this difference with her, but he is not sure how.

Gaila comes up the stairs and sits in the narrow space between himself and Chekov. Spock considers that he has never been so close to a female of any species before.

“Your birthday is March 12, and your Federation Citizen ID number is 4890087,” she says to Chekov. Her curly red hair brushes against his nose, and Spock finds the sensation surprisingly agreeable.

“Oh, and you weigh 62.4 kilos,” she adds.

“Are you psychic?” Chekov asks. Spock doubts it.

“No. I stole your wallet,” Gaila replies. She rummages in her bag and removes a slender leather wallet. Once, it might have been expensive; now, the edges are so scuffed they are nearly white, and one of the seams appears to be bound with duct tape.

“Give it to me!” Chekov exclaims, reaching toward it with a faintly embarrassed look on his face. Gaila shrieks a few words of her native language and dances away from him, smiling.

“It's mine now!”

Moving stealthily, Spock steps behind her, slips the wallet from her hand, and returns it to Chekov. A few meters away, Kirk rolls his eyes, but Spock does not allow himself to feel regret. He desires companionship, but he will not obtain it by banding together against a weaker member of the group.

“Thank you,” Chekov says quietly. He opens the wallet and examines his contents carefully. “Everything is still here.”

“I'm not a thief!” Gaila snaps. “Besides,” she says more quietly, “there was nothing to steal. Two credits and a pussy shot are hardly worth my time.”

Gaila looks triumphant; Chekov is bright red. Clearly, something happened which Spock did not understand. Something emotional, most likely. He remembers suddenly why he so rarely socializes with his human peers: he never understands them.

“I do not understand the term pussy shot,” Spock says.

Chekov flushes deeper, Gaila laughs wildly, and Kirk whispers, “Told you he was a virgin,” to Uhura. Spock takes solace in the memory of Uhura telling Chekov that she found virginal males unobjectionable.

“It's a picture of a vagina,” Uhura calls.

“Thank you,” Spock says, and the rest of the group whoops. He wonders if he is intended to feel embarrassed. Instead, he is grateful for the information and faintly curious. He waits until Kirk and Uhura have become absorbed with one another again, then whispers to Chekov, “May I see your pussy shot?”

***

“I don't know why I like you,” Nyota tells Kirk. Jim, actually. Nobody else calls him by his first name, but she'd like to.

Jim leans in close. A grin spreads slowly across his face, and Nyota can't help but be captivated.

“I know _exactly_ why you like me.”

He wiggles his eyebrows, grinning lasciviously now, and Nyota rolls her eyes. He _is_ gorgeous – bright blue eyes, white teeth, undeniably well-muscled beneath the tight white T-shirt. She lets her eyes roam down his body, and he watches her frankly, appreciating her appreciating him. It makes her flush, makes heat spread all the way from her belly down to the spot between her thighs, and she can't deny she likes it. But that's not why she likes _him_.

“Give me your wallet,” she says, watching Gaila cavort around with Chekov's.

“All right.”

He looks a little baffled, but he hands it to her. Maybe that's what she likes, she thinks. Making him look confused when he's usually so in control. But no, that can't be it either. She's a beautiful woman, but she won't flatter herself into thinking she's the only person who makes him lose a little control.

At first, the wallet is what she expected: black leather, a little worn around the edges, stuffed with condoms and comm numbers written on napkins from bars Jim is too young to enter. Then she sees the tiny name embossed along the bottom right corner. George Kirk, it says. Jim sees her looking and looks away, so she slides a holo frame out of the front pocket to divert his attention. And that is _exactly_ what Nyota expects, slide after slide of girls, some dressed, some naked, some wearing nothing but lingerie, and not an image of his mother or the family farm in sight.

“Are these all your girlfriends?” she asks.

“Some of them...” He doesn't look even the least bit sheepish.

“And the others?” she snaps. What she had seen in a man like James Kirk she couldn't imagine.

“Well, some are girlfriends. And some I'm considering.”

“Considering for _what_? Whether they're good enough for you?”

“Well, yeah. Don't tell me you believe in one guy, one girl? With a body like that?”

“You're such a pig,” she says, but the words don't come out with the bite she had intended. Jim's gross, but then, she already knew that. He's still different from anyone else she knows, and anyway, she's too tipsy to flounce away gracefully.

“Whatever, Princess,” Jim says. “You're not leaving.”

“What makes you so sure?” she asks, resenting his easy certainty a little.

“I've got your purse,” he says smugly. “And there's no way you're going to leave me alone with it.”

Nyota tugs on the strap, but they both know the effort is half-hearted. Jim smiles at her and rummages theatrically in one of the pockets.

“Dirty panties...condoms...naked pictures of your exes. Why, Uhura, I had no idea!”

“Be quiet!”

She glances at Spock, but he and Gaila and Chekov are still immersed in the drama of the stolen wallet.

“No, seriously, why do you have so much shit in here?”

“It's very well-organized,” she says, feeling a little defensive. It _is_ well-organized; she has an endless supply of resealable, biodegradable plastic bags – one for make-up brushes, one for the make-up itself, one for her first-aid kit...

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Well-organized shit. I ask again, why do you have so much?”

“Why do you have so many girlfriends?” she snaps back. Liking Jim isn't the same as trusting him. She's not about to tell him that she never knows when the sound of raised voices and shattering crockery will make her want to walk out the door and never come back.

“I asked you first.”

“I like to keep things close.”

It's a decent approximation of the truth, though why she doesn't just lie to Jim she doesn't know. It's not like even half of what he's said today was true. But Jim just nods and slides the holo frame of girls back into his wallet, which he puts back in his front pocket. Where he won't lose it, she thinks.

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly quiet. “Me too.”

And there it is, the reason she likes Jim Kirk. He's the only man who's ever shown her the vulnerability under his bravado.

***

“This identicard is fake,” Spock says. Chekov, perhaps moved by his interest in the “pussy shot,” has allowed him to examine the remainder of the wallet.

“It's worst I've ever seen,” Gaila adds. “I know a better forger if you want one.”

At this moment, Spock feels like an alien, moreso than he ever has in his life. He is drunk yet unwilling to outwardly alter his behavior. Though he has violated ethical rules – he would not be serving detention or drinking alcohol if he had not – he cannot comprehend the felonious desire to possess fake identification. He is aware that possessing _bad_ fake identification is doubly illogical; it heightens the risk while reducing the possibility of reward. And Gaila is even more problematic. She had previously shown no desire for their companionship today; it would be illogical for her to attempt to win it now through blatant lies. Yet, it is exceedingly unlikely that a fellow sixteen -year-old would know reliable document forgers. He would like to understand, badly. But to do that he will have to ask questions, and if he asks questions, the other students will laugh. He will therefore lose what little of their esteem he possesses, and his drunkenness has only strengthened his desire for their approval. But clearly it is necessary to say something; they are looking at him as though it is his turn to say something.

He selects the truth.

“This card states that you are sixty-eight years old.”

Gaila guffaws, but not at him. Spock considers the remark a success.

Chekov appears unperturbed.

“Yes. I typed it incorrectly.”

“You produced this document yourself?” Spock asks. “For what purpose?”

“Yes. I wanted to vote for Admiral Archer in the presidential election.”

“Most laudable.” Relief floods his beer-addled brain; he can understand the desire to participate in democratic political processes. Though he had attempted to discipline the emotion, he had envied the eighteen-year-old students who could participate in the election. “Were you successful?”

“No, but I ran away before the police came.”

“With the ID,” Gaila says admiringly. “You're smarter than you look.”

Chekov beams, though the quality of the compliment seemed dubious at best. Yet, Spock cannot deny he feels envious of her attentions. He has no story which could conceivably win the approval of an eccentric and possibly criminal Orion.

Gaila hefts her bag from the floor. It seems to place considerable strain on her muscles, and the contents rattle and clink. “Wanna see what's in my bag?”

“That is not necessary,” Spock says. It is not prudent to risk exposure to contraband, and he is certain that the contents of Gaila's purse will only result in even more problematic conversation topics.

Gaila glares at him and dumps the bag into his lap.

“That was unnecessary,” Spock says.

“Pussy,” Gaila answers.

“Do you always carry this much sh... stuff?” Chekov asks.

“Grow a pair and say the swear word next time. And yeah, I carry this all the time.”

Gingerly, Spock lifts a half-eaten sandwich and a laser-guided plasma torch from the pile on his lap.

“My human psychology teacher told us about a disorder called hoarding. I believe you have it.”

“Aren't you supposed to be a diplomat's child?” Gaila snatches the plasma torch from his hand, which is illogical since she had stated a desire to share her possessions. “You Federation children take much for granted. If you'd lived my life, you'd know I need this.”

Spock shifts his weight and three stubby orange crayons roll out from the pile. He raises an eyebrow, feeling unaccountably pleased that someone else's behavior is more aberrant than his own.

“For what conceivable purpose does one need three broken orange crayons?”

Gaila shrugs her shoulders.

“In case I want to draw something.”

“Something orange?”

“Fuck you. You don't get it.” She snatches items randomly from his lap and shoves them back into her purse. “Mommy and Daddy give you everything you ever want, every day of your life. You want crayons, you buy them. You want a sandwich, you buy it. You don't ever have to ask yourself what if have to run away or what if you'll die without a laser torch or what if you want to draw something orange and you can't. And you're lazy and weak and spoiled and stupid and you don't even know it.”

“I apologize. I did not intend to cause offense.”

Her reaction is contradictory; her voice is angry but tears are pooling in her eyes.

“Yes. Yes, you did. You wanted to feel _superior_ , to point out that you are so much more logical and intelligent than the rest of us. It's what you do, every single fucking day and I don't know why I thought this one would be different.”

“I am sorry. It appears that my understanding of your life situation is...inadequate.”

It is also likely that his self-understanding is inadequate; Gaila's comment perhaps contained a grain of truth. He will have to consider it in his evening meditation.

“I believe it would be beneficial for us to discuss this issue further,” he says, but Gaila swears at him in a pirate language and flings an apple at his head.

“If you were wondering, I said fuck you.” She storms down the stairs.

Beside him, Chekov shakes his head.

“She is...what is the expression? An island unto herself. Okay?”

Metaphorical communication has variable definitions. Spock does not like it.

“You believe that her emotional reactions are unpredictable and that causing her offense was therefore inevitable?” he asks. He does not understand how these characteristics are related to islands but believes this is the most likely interpretation of Chekov's statement, given the context.

“Yes. Exactly. An island.”

Spock cocks his head.

“Your metaphor also implies a degree of uniqueness and isolation. I find these traits most intriguing.”

Kirk ambles toward him, and Spock readies his verbal and physical defenses.

“I would prefer to avoid any further altercations today.”

“Relax, Spock.” Kirk settles on the floor next to Chekov. “You pissed her off. Give her ten minutes, let her cool down, then go apologize again.”

“I do not believe it wise to take your advice.”

“He's right, you know,” Uhura calls from her corner of the room, where she is carefully re-packing her purse. “It's a gesture of trust for Orions to show their possessions. She's upset because she wanted you to be interested in her, not criticize her. Go talk to her if you like her. She wants you to.”

Kirk claps him on the shoulder.

“Good luck, man.”

***

Spock waits 11.3 minutes before he follows Gaila down the stairs. She is applying purple lipstick to the statue of George Kirk. Suppressing his desire to criticize this behavior requires extreme self-discipline.

“Would you like to talk?” he asks, uncertain how to begin the conversation.

Gaila crosses her arms over her chest. “You have problems,” she announces.

Spock raises an eyebrow. “If you understand me better than I do, please enlighten me,” he says.

He has failed, once again, to fully eliminate the sarcasm from his tone. Both his mother and father have criticized this failing many times.

Gaila snorts.

“You do everything everyone ever tells you to. That is a problem.”

Her gaze is unyielding, and Spock stifles an illogical urge to shuffle his feet. Though it is difficult to admit, the statement is accurate.

“You are correct. This is a problem.” He pauses, wishing for a moment to possess his father's diplomatic finesse. “Everyone has problems, however, you seemed to invite discussion of yours by spilling your purse into my lap. I apologize for failing to discuss them in a more considerate manner.”

Gaila's eyes soften infinitesimally. The effort required to recognize and interpret these small shifts is overwhelming.

“If it is not an intrusion, I would like to better understand the problems you have faced.” He recalls that many of today's conversations have revolved around familial difficulties. “Is the problem your parents?”

“I don't _have_ parents.”

She does not say _idiot_ at the end of her sentence, but Spock can hear it quite clearly in spite of his difficulty interpreting emotion.

“They sold me to slavers when I was four, you know.”

“I did not know. I am sorry.”

Gaila snorts and shakes her head.

“Yeah? Sorry for what? Not like it was your fault.”

“I am sorry that you have felt pain.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

She doesn't look like she wants to hit him anymore, and Spock considers this progress. Hesitantly, he sits next to her at the base of the statue. He is gratified that she does not move away.

***

“I really can't do this anymore,” Pike says to the bare walls of his office. The assignment's not going anywhere though, not unless he quits the Fleet, so he has to find a way to make it more bearable somehow. That, he figures, will require him to understand the children under his care, and to do _that_...well, he isn't really sure. He wanders down to the empty counseling center because he can't stand being in his own cheerless office anymore, and maybe, just maybe there's something in there that will help. The students' personal files are supposed to be off-limits unless he has some clear and pressing need for their contents, but Pike has always had a secret knack for hacking, and a high school's privacy encryptions aren't exactly challenging anyway.

Of course, Rand _would_ catch him the second he sits down at the head counselor's desk.

“The counselor's files are supposed to be confidential, you know,” she says from the doorway.

Pike winces, but he manages not to turn red, which he counts as an accomplishment.

“Yeah, I, uh, did know that.”

Nothing quite like being caught breaking privacy laws by your school custodian.

“So why are you looking at them?”

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“I just wanted to know who they are. The students, I mean. I don't understand them.”

“Did you ask them?” she asks.

“Yeah, I did as a matter of fact.”

Rand shrugs her shoulders.

“Then listen to the answer.”

“You really think it's that simple?”

“I think it's a good place to start.” She takes a Thermos off her cleaning cart and holds it aloft. “You look like you could use some coffee.”

“That's the same thermos I had when I was a kid. Still have it as a matter of fact,” he says. White starships shimmer against a twinkling starscape on the thermos' body. “Mine wasn't holographic though.”

“Yeah? This one was my mom's. I always liked it when I was a girl.”

Janice pours him a cup and he takes a sip of the coffee. It's ten times better than his. Janice always has nice things, he realizes. Plain, simple things, but nice ones. Her cart is always perfectly organized, she keeps to a schedule, but her efficiency doesn't stop her from looking out for people's needs.

“Say, Janice, what did you want to be when you were a kid?”

“Don't laugh.”

“I wanted to be a dinosaur. I have no room to judge.”

Janice giggles.

“I wanted to be a dinosaur too. Pterodactyl, to be exact. But when I grew up a little, I wanted to join Starfleet.”

“Why didn't you?”

She shrugs her shoulders.

“Oh, life got in the way, I suppose. My mom got sick when I was finishing high school, and it was just her and me, so I stayed at home to take care of her.”

“And now?”

“After she passed, it was like...life just stopped. She was my best friend, you know? I think I thought that if I kept living the same life I had when she was alive, I'd always be a little closer to her. So I stayed, and I'm still here.”

She pauses and licks her lips. If she were a member of his crew, she'd be preparing to ask permission to speak freely.

“You're nice this way, Chris. Easy to talk to. I don't tell that story to a lot of people, you know.”

He considers the implication, that he's normally _not_ nice, and he can't say it's not true. Even on his best days here, he's desperately confused and he misses the stars.

“The truth is, Janice, I don't know what I'm doing here with these kids. Nice isn't something you think about when you're a Starfleet captain. You think about keeping your ship in order and your crew alive, and they do the same. These kids, though, I don't know what they need or what they want or what they think about. I'll tell you one thing though, I swear I wasn't this disobedient or disrespectful when I was their age.”

Janice giggles again.

“Yes, you were. We all were, you especially. There is no way you'd be a Starfleet captain if you didn't have a wild streak.”

Chris shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a bit like a schoolboy who'd just been caught doing something naughty.

“I can see I'm right. And you know what else?” She leans across the desk, looking like she's about to reveal the meaning of life. “They're people, just like you and me. They're petty and selfish and sometimes even cruel because every last one of them is confused. And they need a leader, someone like you.”

“Janice, it's going to be a real shame to lose you.”

“Oh? Are you firing me for telling the truth?”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

She reminds him a bit of Number One, actually. Not afraid to be honest, even when the truth wasn't pleasant. That was what made her such an asset. He removes a small data chip from his padd and hands it to Rand.

“This is a letter of introduction to the Riverside Recruiting Office. Promise me you'll at least visit them.”

“I will. Sir.”

“I'm giving you Monday off. I'll expect a report at 0800 Tuesday morning, my office.” He eyes Rand's steaming Thermos. “And don't forget the coffee.”

This time she beams.

“Aye-aye, sir.”

He'd rather be a Starfleet captain than a high school principal, but if he's got to be here, he might as well do his job.

***

They're sitting on the floor in a circle again, mellow with the influence of beer and boredom. No truth or dare this time though; Nyota's had enough viciousness for the day. She looks around the circle, surveying her handiwork. She's sitting next to Jim, who's behaving like a real human being for the moment at least. Chekov is on her other side, where she can keep an eye on him. Spock sits next to Gaila, who is sitting next to Jim. It's a good arrangement; the potential for conflict is minimized, and people are sitting next to people they want to know better. _She's_ sitting next to someone she wants to get to know.

“Okay, easy question,” she says. “What would you do for a million credits?”

“As many women as I had to,” Jim says.

She rolls her eyes. She seems to do that a lot around Jim.

“The question was _what_ would you do, not _who_ would you do. Spock?”

“I would do as little as possible.”

“That's a cop-out,” she accuses.

“Vague questions yield vague answers. My response was logical.”

Nyota stifles another eye roll and reminds herself that Vulcans probably don't play games like this. Spock might not understand the point.

“Look, the object of the question is to search your mind for your absolute limit.” She casts about for something she could never imagine Spock doing. “Like, would you walk into first period calc completely naked?”

“Yes.”

Chekov splutters beside her.

“That's it? You would just walk into class naked? It is not a problem for you?”

“Vulcans do not feel shame.”

Jim narrows his eyes.

“Prove it. Take off your pants.”

“You desire to see me naked?”

“I can take it.”

“I do not remove my clothing at your request.” Spock looks around their circle, attempting to ascertain the expectations of the group. “In any case, no suitable reward has been proposed.”

“Wuss,” Kirk says.

Nyota holds up her hands.

“No one is taking off their clothes. How about you, Gaila? Would you go to first hour naked for a million credits?”

Nyota smiles at her tentatively. Of everyone here, Gaila's the one she knows the least. It's hard for her to believe they could ever be friends, but then, a lot of people have surprised her today.

Gaila tosses her unkempt hair like a girl in a shampoo commercial – or a porn holo – and smiles wickedly. The gesture looks practiced somehow, even though Nyota can't really picture her seducing people. Or anyone wanting to be seduced by her.

“Oh, I'll do anything sexual,” she says, sounding strangely offhand about it. “You don't even have to give me a million credits.”

Nyota narrows her eyes. The point of the game is to tell the truth and get to know each other, not make up more bizarre lies.

“I don't believe you.”

“I've done everything,” she says. Her smile is lascivious and oddly jagged. “I've done things you can't even imagine, princess. Things that are illegal in the Federation.”

“Do your parents know about this?” Chekov asks, and Jim Kirk snorts. Nyota nudges his ribs before he can say anything.

“I told the head counselor.”

Jim smirks and Nyota glares at him, not caring for the rapt attention he's suddenly paying Gaila.

“And what did she do?” he asks.

“Well...I don't think it can be construed as statutory rape. I'm over seventeen, you know.”

“That's fucked up, Gaila,” Nyota says. “She's an adult.”

“Yeah, and she's married,” Gaila says, sounding bored.

Nyota remembers the nights her mother hasn't come home, her father sitting in their empty living room, knuckles clenched tight around his martini glass while he smiles and says good night to her little sister.

“You're _disgusting_.”

“I do not believe it is our place to judge,” Spock says softly. Both Nyota and Gaila stare at him, surprised. He shrugs his shoulders, the most human gesture Nyota can ever recall him making. “Infinite diversity in infinite combination.”

Gaila leans back, propping herself up on her elbows, and looks at Nyota appraisingly.

“Anyway, what do you know? Have you ever even had sex?”

Nyota fidgets under Gaila's steady gaze.

“Didn't we cover this already?”

“You did not answer the question,” Spock says mildly.

“Well, that's because I don't care to discuss my sex life with strangers.” She hates how prim she sounds, but she doesn't know how to stop. Everyone calls her the ice princess, and it's probably accurate. Most days, she doesn't mind; it's only because she's ten times more confident than they are. But sometimes, she wishes she knew how to navigate a conversation like this and sound normal.

“You're scared.” Gaila's voice is almost a whisper, and it makes Nyota shiver. “You think there's a right answer and a wrong answer, and Nyota Uhura _always_ picks the right answer. But now you don't know which one it is. Which one will make us like you? But if you admit that's what you want, you have to admit you want our approval, and then you'd be weak. You hate to be weak. It's why you don't have sex. You're afraid to be vulnerable in front of anyone, even for ten minutes.”

“Or you're just a tease,” Jim says.

Nyota glares at him, but secretly she's relieved. It's much easier to respond to Jim's taunting than Gaila's.

“I am _not_ a tease.”

“Well, you're only a tease if what you do gets people hot.”

“I don't _do_ anything.”

“And that's why you're a tease.”

“It's okay,” Gaila says. “All you young, delicate Earth girls are. That's why I had to fuck an older woman.”

“Fine. If it makes you feel better to think of me as a tease, then I'm a tease. I could care less. But I have a few questions for you.”

Let Gaila see what it's like to be scrutinized and criticized by people she wanted to befriend.

“Oh no. I already shared. It's your turn.”

“Not any more. I'm a tease. We're done with me. What I want to know is why it doesn't bother you to sleep with people you don't love. Don't you want any respect?”

“I don't fuck to get respect. I fuck to have orgasms. That's the difference between you and me.”

“Not the only difference, I hope.”

“You use sex to get respect?” Jim asks. “That's pretty fucked up.”

“That's not what I said. You're putting words in my mouth.”

Nyota hates to have language used against her; it's her ally, her friend, and her weapon, and she can always count on herself to wield it better than someone else. Jim wouldn't understand that though.

“Then what do you use sex for?” he asks.

“I don't _use_ it for anything. It's not a tool.”

She doesn't know what it is; that's the problem. All she knows is that everyone wants it from her, and that makes her afraid to give it. How can she choose rightly among so many different options, and so many people whose interests might or might not be sincere? Seeking an ally, she looks around their circle. She shouldn't have expected better from Jim, and she can't ask Chekov to stand up for her. But Spock should; he had defended Gaila earlier, hadn't he?

“Stop putting words in my mouth, all of you. _Please_.”

Jim snorts. “If you'd just answer the question, we wouldn't have to.”

In desperation, she looks at Chekov. It's hard to picture him resisting the group, but maybe if he sees she needs help...

“Why won't you answer the question?” he asks. “I told you have I have never had sex.”

“During the course of the day, you have solicited personal information from all of us,” Spock says. “It is logical that you should share something personal as well.”

Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, and she clenches one of them hard enough to feel her fingernails biting into her palms. She doesn't even know why it bothers her so much to tell the truth; it wasn't as if she would really judge anyone for their answer. But Gaila was right. She doesn't like to be vulnerable, and she'd rather be judged for a non-answer than for saying something true. And she doesn't want to be called an ice princess any more. At least, not by them.

She unclenches her hand and carefully smooths her skirt, even though it probably makes her look more prim.

“All right,” she says softly. “Fair's fair. I haven't had sex.” She looks around their group in warning. “But if you call me an ice princess, I'll tear your head off.”

No one does.

***

Spock speaks first. Among Vulcans, engaging in a sexual relationship outside of marriage would be regarded as a shameful lack of self-control; even within a relationship, sexual activity was considered deeply private. He had not expected the matter to be so sensitive among humans, but now he regrets that he did not intercede in the conversation earlier.

“I do not believe any of us has reason to judge one another. We are all...atypical in some way,” he says. The others in the group, except Gaila, appear to be skeptical.

“How are you atypical?” Uhura asks finally. He is surprised by her question; he is the only half-human half-Vulcan in the galaxy. He is like no one else. Yet, he reflects, he has hidden that well. He fulfills the expectations of his teachers admirably. To human eyes, he is a model Vulcan with no human qualities. But, though he had chastised Uhura for failing to share private information, he does not wish to explain his predicament to the group. He does not believe they will understand. He is relieved when Gaila answers for him.

“He can't think for himself. That's a problem.”

“Bullshit,” Kirk says. “Spock does nothing but think.”

“Yeah, but not for himself,” Gaila says, and Uhura looks at her sharply.

“It is true. I do not think for myself. I am here because of that.” The group looks startled. Even Spock is startled by his own frankness. Yet, he is aware that he has not been punished adequately for the transgression that brought him here. Perhaps confessing will ameliorate that.

“How can you receive detention for refusing to think?” Chekov asks.

“It's pretty easy, whiz kid. I do it every weekend,” Kirk says.

“The Terran planetary debate tournament took place last weekend. I had advanced to the final round, and I desired to win it more strongly than I can recall desiring anything in my life.” Even the admission of desire is shameful, but he wills himself to continue his confession. After all, many others have shared secrets today. “I did not believe that I could beat my rival. Therefore, I purchased a copy of her cases and evidence from a disgruntled teammate. I did not believe that my own skills and my own thoughts were sufficient for victory.”

“Did you win?” Kirk asks.

“Yes. By unanimous decision.”

Spock does not consider his actions admirable, but Kirk extends his hand toward him in a human gesture known as a “high five.” He had received several such high fives from his teammates when his dubious victory had been announced.

“That's _awesome_ , man! Didn't know you had it in you!” Kirk exclaims. When Spock does not return the high five, Kirk claps him on the shoulder instead.

“It is not 'awesome.' When I realized what I had done, I confessed to my debate coach, however his emotions overwhelmed his ethics, and he refused to inform tournament officials. I then confessed to my father, but he believes that acknowledging my...indiscretion would jeopardize my admission to the Vulcan Science Academy. He and my coach therefore arranged for me to receive detention for a trivial offense, and I lack the courage to defy my father and confess to Captain Pike.”

“Why was winning so important to you?” Uhura asks quietly. Her eyes look kind.

“I did it for my father.” This is the most shameful truth, one he had not dared declare to either of his parents. “He has suffered for marrying a human and having a hybrid child. If I were bested by a human in a contest of logic, the shame would have been too great for him to bear. I wished to spare him.”

“That's awful, Spock. He ought to accept you for who you are,” Uhura says, and Kirk glares at her. Spock wonders if he fears losing her attention.

“My father has done nothing wrong. It is I who lost control of my emotional desires.”

“That's not awful, Spock. It's human.”

He cannot decide whether the statement is comforting or not.

***

“I understand why you did it,” Pavel says. It is a strange feeling, saying something true to people, but now that he's let the words out, it's hard to stop. “I am only my grades. And when I look at myself, I do not like who I am. But I do not know who else to be.”

“Why don't you like yourself?” Uhura asks. Her eyes are kind, and Pavel is surprised that he used to be afraid of her.

“I am not intelligent. I am only good at repeating what my teachers want me to say. So they recommended me to take Captain Pike's special seminar.”

He sees Uhura's eyes widen, and even Spock looks a little envious, and he shakes his head hastily.

“But I do not deserve to be there. I am failing the class. He wants us to write what we think, but I do not know what I am supposed to think unless my teacher tells me.”

“This place is fucked up,” Gaila pronounces, and Pavel looks up, surprised. She had been painting her fingernails with black nail polish no one else had seen her steal from Uhura's bag; he thought she wasn't interested in the conversation anymore. “It's all rules and order and shit, and Pike's likes that. Then he gets in a classroom and tells you to think for yourself and he's surprised when you can't. Why could you when everybody else here just wants you to repeat what they want you to say?”

“That's bullshit,” Kirk says. “It's an excuse. You don't want to think for yourselves because you're afraid.”

“What do you know? You're probably failing all your classes,” Chekov shoots back, ignoring the fluttering of panic in his chest. He's not used to standing up to someone like Kirk.

“He's not. He's first in our class,” Uhura says, looking both admiring and disgusted. “Saying that made me throw up in my mouth a little.”

Kirk grins.

“It's true. You think there's a single teacher in here who likes me? But they have to give me an A because what I write is _good_.”

“Okay. I am stupid and also a coward,” Pavel says, dizzy with how quickly even this small group can turn on each other. They were kind about Spock's problem, but they have insulted him. He should have known better.

“Hey, nobody said that,” Uhura says. She is no different from everyone else in her group. They always deny when they have hurt someone; they do not like to admit bad things about themselves.

“I can write with my toes,” Gaila says, smiling crookedly. They all stare at her. “I can also eat and play the _zathar_. That's an Orion instrument.”

“With your _feet_?” Uhura asks.

Gaila dips an elegantly pointed foot into her bag and retrieves a stylus.

“I can do all kinds of things with my feet. People used to pay good money to watch.”

Pavel scoots back from the circle a little, relieved that the previous conversation is forgotten. Gaila winks at him when no one is looking, and he realizes that she had done this on purpose, to rescue him.

“I can't make borscht!” he blurts out before someone says something cutting to Gaila. She had helped him; he doesn't want her to suffer for it, even if it means he has to endure their attention again. “What can you do, Spock?” he asks, safely diverting the group's focus once more.

“I can...purchase your debate arguments before you are able to use them against me.” Spock pauses. “In the event that any of you choose to join the debate team.”

“Was that a _joke_ , Spock?” Kirk asks, raising his hand for another high five.

“I believe it was,” Spock says. “However, it was not a good one.” He looks disdainfully at Kirk's upraised hand. “Please refrain from high fiving me.”

Kirk lowers his hand without protest and turns his mischievous grin to Uhura.

“I want to see what you can do.”

Uhura shrugs her shoulders.

“I can speak seventeen languages.”

“Yeah, I think you told us that before. Like twelve times. I'm talking about stupid shit here. Like writing with your toes.”

“I can't do anything like that. I'm just me, straight-laced ice princess,” Uhura says, which surprises Pavel because he thought she didn't want to be thought of that way.

“You are really hard to understand sometimes, you know that? You tell us not to call you an ice princess, but then you say it about yourself and you get pissed off every time someone asks you to be real for ten seconds,” Kirk says. Pavel had wondered about this too, but he had not been brave or important enough to ask.

“Being real means giving up power. That's why she doesn't want to do it,” Gaila says. “She doesn't know that it makes her lonely.”

“Don't talk about me like I'm not here,” Uhura snaps. She pulls something small and gold from her bag, but Pavel can't see what it is, and he doesn't want to look like he's watching her too closely. “I have something to show you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“I promise,” he says immediately, then feels stupid. He should learn not to show how much he wants people to like him; it makes him look weak.

“Thank you,” Uhura says, smiling at him, and suddenly he's not sorry anymore. He knows that he will never have her; he is skinny and small and does not know how to think yet, and he is no competition for Kirk or Spock. But having a pretty girl smiling at him instead of laughing at him is nice, and he enjoys it.

“I'll laugh if it's funny,” Kirk says, but his smirk shifts to awe when Uhura begins to unbutton her shirt.

“What are you doing?” Spock asks. His face is green.

“Some people play music with their toes. I can put on lipstick with my boobs.”

Pavel tries not to look. Kirk and Spock are staring, and even Gaila is leering. He would like to be the gentleman of the group, but it is very difficult. He has seen bras before, large cone-shaped white ones that belong to his mother. But he has never seen a bra on a woman before, and it is beautiful. Uhura's bra is simple and white, trimmed by tiny scallops of lace that look bright against her dark skin. Her breasts are not large, but they are real and so close that he could touch them. He won't, of course, but he _could_ , and that makes today better than any other day of his life so far.

The bra presses them together and lifts them, and Uhura squeezes them with her upper arms until they are pressed very closely together indeed. Then she nestles the small gold thing from her purse between them, and now Pavel can see that it's a tube of lipstick. Very bright red lipstick. Very slowly, Uhura bends over and traces her lips over it. When she raises her head, the lipstick is perfect, but Pavel can barely make himself look at her face. His pants feel too tight, and he shifts to hide the bulge. Beside him, Spock does the same.

Kirk claps, slowly and theatrically.

“That is _hot_. My image of you is totally blown.”

Uhura is buttoning her shirt now, and Pavel can see that her dark skin looks faintly flushed. He begins calculating the digits of Pi in his head so he will not make up his own stories about making her look that way.

“That skill is most unusual. Where did you learn it?” Spock asks, sounding so matter-of-fact that Pavel almost laughs before he thinks better of it. He thinks they may be friends, but he isn't sure if it's okay to laugh at each other yet.

“Summer camp. Seventh grade.”

Pavel pictures a cabin full of topless girls bending their heads toward their cleavage. His pants begin to feel tight again. He must stop this before he embarrasses himself. And so he blurts out the first question that comes to mind. It is a very foolish question indeed.

“When we come back to school on Monday, are we still friends? If we are friends now, I mean?”

The silence in the room is deafening.

***

Fear used to make Jim Kirk weak; now it makes him dangerous. When he was a kid, his stomach used to clench in knots every time Frank stood in his bedroom door, casting a long and looming shadow over the wooden floor. He had endured the slaps and kicks and cigarette burns stoically; what he had hated was the moment when he knew pain was coming, but not how much or when. When Chekov asks if they will still be friends when they leave here, he feels the exact same sour-sick fear that Frank's threats had once instilled. He remembers how good it had felt with the four of them running through the corridors on his heels, and he doesn't want today to be the last time he experiences that sensation. But he knows that people like this aren't friends with people like him. So he does the thing he always does in situations like this: he strikes first.

And he knows _exactly_ what he's doing. Not liking it isn't the same as not doing it.

“You think the ice princess here is going to be friends with _you_?” he asks Chekov and takes savage pleasure in watching the kid's face fall. “Let me tell you exactly what is going to happen on Monday, _Pasha_. You are going to walk up to her in the hallway and say hello because that's exactly the kind of naïve idiot you are. And she'll be nice to you because that's exactly the kind of fake bitch she is. Then, when you're gone, she's going to cut you up in front of all her friends because she can't bear to admit that she actually does like you.”

Chekov's mouth opens and closes a couple times, but no sound comes out. It hurts a little to look at it. He and the kid had wanted the same thing, actually; Jim just wasn't dumb enough to say it out loud.

Uhura, of course, has no trouble finding her tongue.

“Is that what you really think of us? After all this time, everything we talked about? Just because you're an insensitive prick doesn't mean the rest of us are. And it doesn't mean you can walk all over all our feelings any time you choose.”

“Your remark was inappropriate,” Spock interjects. “You ought to apologize.”

Spock's voice is low and flat and dangerous, and Jim admires it, he really does. In another life – maybe the one where his father had lived, or maybe just the one where Jim had managed not to fuck himself up so badly – he might have asked Spock how he could make such an ordinary sentence sound like a threat. But this is not that life.

“What do you care what I think? I don't even count, right? I could disappear forever and it wouldn't even matter, remember?” He turns to Uhura. “And you don't even like me!”

“Not right now, I don't!”

“Good!”

Not like the last few hours could really have erased what they had thought about him before. He was an idiot if he had ever thought they could.

“And you know what else? Keep your princess friends and your diamond fucking earrings! Did Daddy buy those for you, by the way? Some weekend when your mom got drunk and warped out to Risa to fuck someone else? Or was it to say sorry for the one weekend he had the balls to pack up a suitcase and leave her?”

“Shut up,” Uhura says. There are tears in her eyes, but her voice is quiet and vicious. “You know, I thought you were different. I thought what everyone said about you was unfair. But I was wrong. You are an _asshole_ and you deserve every horrible thing that anyone has ever said about you.”

She doesn't add _including Frank_ the way Jim would've done. He loves her and hates her for it.

“You're turning into him,” Gaila says.

“Who?” Jim snaps. _And what the fuck do you know about me anyway?_ he thinks.

“Your stepfather. Right now, you are him.”

It scares him into silence.

***

Nyota's still a little shaky when she moves to sit next to Pavel. She wishes she could have this conversation some place private, but then, what Jim had said wouldn't have hurt her if it didn't hold a grain of truth. She and Pavel probably aren't the only ones who are aware of that.

“You know, what he said about me would've been true a year ago.” She smiles ruefully. “Or maybe even a week ago. But it's not now. I'd like to be able to call you my friend.”

“Why?” Pavel looks skeptical, and Nyota can't blame him. He's probably been set up like this before.

“Because you're kind and honest and genuine.” She shoots a glance at Jim, who won't meet her eyes. “And not a lot of people are.”

“So today I am worth being friends with, and a week ago I was not. What changed?”

It's a hard question, but she owes an answer to herself as much as she does to him.

“I don't know. I just look at my house, and I want _out_ , I guess. And all I could think about was knowing the right people, and saying the right things, and being as perfect as I could be so I could get into the Academy and get away. Sometimes there's just so much pressure, you know? I hate going home, but I had this one comfortable niche with my friends, and I forgot to think about other people. And I forgot to look at who I was becoming.”

“I know about pressure,” Chekov says quietly. He looks around at the group. “Did you know that I am here because I had a gun in my locker?”

“A _what_?” Nyota asks.

“Whoa,” Jim says.

Gaila looks excited; Spock says nothing.

“Why did you have a gun in your locker?” Nyota asks, even though she's sure she already knows. He wouldn't have it to hurt anyone else.

“I really tried. Before the last test, I read command textbooks from Starfleet Academy. Pike's doctoral dissertation. Captain's personal logs. But it was not good enough. I got a C. My mother said we must have a conference with Captain Pike, and we did. He said, 'well-researched but no signs of original thinking.' I am not good enough. All I have wanted in my life is to go to Starfleet Academy, and I am not good enough.”

“That does not explain the purpose of the gun,” Spock says.

“Just forget it,” Chekov says savagely.

Nyota shakes her head. “We can't forget something like that, Pavel.”

“It was your choice to tell us about it. It is logical to believe that you wish to discuss it,” Spock adds.

“It is nothing...I only wished to consider my options.”

“Suicide is _not_ an option,” Nyota says.

“I know. I didn't do it, did I?”

“What kind of gun was it?” Gaila asks. “If it was a real phaser, I might want to buy it.”

Pavel colors slightly.

“It was not a real gun...it was a flare gun. It went off in my locker.”

Gaila giggles.

“It isn't funny.”

“I believe it is,” Spock says. “If I had a sense of humor, of course.”

Nyota can't help it; she laughs. Pavel resists for a moment, then gives in and laughs with her.

“Do you know why I'm here?” Gaila asks.

“Romulan Ale,” Spock says.

Gaila shakes her head.

“Sex in the corridors?” Nyota asks.

“There's nobody in this school good enough to touch me.”

“All right then, what did you do?” Jim asks. It's the first thing he's said since his outburst. Now that she thinks of it, he's the only one who hadn't laughed at Pavel and his flare gun. She'd like to ask him about that, later maybe. If she decides to talk to him again.

A smile spreads across Gaila's face.

“Nothing!” she exclaims. “I don't even _have_ detention. I just didn't have anything better to do.”

***

Gaila has always liked making the people around her go quiet; now she knows she likes making them laugh even better. It's sad-funny, not funny-funny, that she went to detention to get out of the home, but she can make them overlook that with the sound of her voice. That's a good power.

When they all finish laughing with her, she fetches her music player from her bag, using her toes because her feet are elegant and she likes when people watch them. The music player had once belonged to Nyota's friend Desirae, who was too stupid to zip her purse. Gaila might have felt bad about taking it, except that Desirae had had a new, better music player the next day. She had wanted that one too, but she let Desirae keep it because she did not steal things she did not need. That was one of the differences between being a pirate and being a thief, although she didn't expect the Federation children to understand it.

She slides the music player across the floor to Chekov because he likes to feel important, and it is not difficult to make him feel that way.

“You pick the music,” she says. She doesn't smile because her smiles are all predatory or seductive, but he smiles at her anyway.

It was his admission of weakness that had brought the group back together after Kirk's outburst. She will have to think about that carefully later. For now, when Nyota comes to her with a hairbrush and a bag of cosmetics, Gaila acquiesced. Nyota thinks she is teaching Gaila something she does not know, which bothers her. Gaila used to do these things for herself every day, and she does not doubt that her mastery far exceeds a Federation girl who had never depended on her body for a living. But she doesn't say it because she likes the feeling of Nyota's caring fingers tangling in her hair, a sensation she has not known since the last of her sisters was sold to a distant station.

“You know, all this black stuff on your eyes only covers up how pretty you are,” Nyota says, retrieving a tissue and a bottle of make-up remover from her purse.

“Yes,” Gaila says. That had been her objective.

“It makes you look so unapproachable.”

“Beauty makes people think they can talk to you,” Gaila agrees, though now she finds it hard to remember why she had been so afraid of that. The people here lack the power to hurt her in the ways her masters had; they lack the knowledge of that kind of cruelty.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Gaila asks.

“Because you're letting me,” Nyota says.

***

They are sitting on the railing around George Kirk's statue. Gaila is beside Pavel, which makes him feel warm inside, and Jim Kirk is crawling into the ceiling. Pavel isn't sorry to see him go, although there was a time today when he thought they might be friends.

“I'll teach you to kill people who fuck with you,” Gaila offers.

Pavel isn't really sure of the right response to that. Sometimes Gaila is nice; sometimes she frightens him. Like now.

“Maybe you could teach me to disable them instead?” he suggests.

Gaila laughs, pretty and musical. Because she thinks he is funny.

“Okay,” she says.

Nyota is on his other side. Pavel does not think he has ever sat between two beautiful women before. He is not a fool; he knows that Nyota likes Kirk and maybe also Spock, and he thinks he saw Gaila looking at Spock too. All the same, it's nice to be noticed.

“Are you going to write your essay?” Nyota asks.

“Yes.”

To refuse to complete Pike's assignment is unthinkable.

“Well, I was thinking that you should write it for all of us,” Nyota says.

“You do not want to do your own homework?” he asks. He has done homework for many people. He doesn't mind it exactly; only, he knows that it's not the same thing as friendship, and he had hoped for a better ending today.

“I don't mean it that way,” Nyota says. “It's just...I think you see more than you realize. Your answer would be good.” She hops off the railing and smiles. “It wouldn't hurt to show Pike that you can think originally. But if you don't want to do it, we'll still be friends on Monday.”

Pavel hesitates. Speaking up for himself is hard; speaking for a whole group of people is even harder. Maybe that's why he's stood on the sidelines for so long. It is time to do what Pike is always saying, to dare himself to do better. He picks up the stylus.

“I can do that,” he says.

***

Gaila pulls out the chair across from Spock, but she does not sit on it. Instead, she pushes it away and sits on the table.

“What are you doing?” she asks

“I am contemplating a dilemma unlike any I have experienced before.”

“Which is?”

“I have been instructed by my father that logic provides serenity that few humans will ever know. Yet, denying my emotions completely does not cause me to feel serene. I have reason to believe that this is true for my father as well, or he would not have married a human. Based upon this analysis, I am considering pursuing a course of action which I had previously judged undesirable.”

“That's very vague” Gaila says. She tilts her head, causing sunlight to fall on her copper-colored curls. Spock wonders if she desires him to look at her; she has made substantial alterations to her appearance in the past thirty-two minutes. The effect of the simple cosmetics around her eyes is particularly pleasant.

“I am considering engaging in a romantic relationship,” he clarifies.

Gaila's eyes flick toward Nyota Uhura. It is a logical supposition based upon his actions earlier in the day, however, it is erroneous.

“I believe that one is best served by pursuing relationships with an individual very different from oneself,” he says.

Gaila narrows her eyes.

“Are you asking me out?”

“The alterations made to your appearance are pleasing. However, more importantly, you are extremely observant and unafraid to speak difficult truths. I therefore believe I could learn a great deal from you.” He pauses. “This is not an acceptable proposal. Therefore, I will rephrase. Gaila, would you accompany me to dinner on Friday of next week?”

She smiles. The effect is startling, and startlingly gratifying.

“I accept your proposal. One one condition.”

“And that is?”

“That you promise to start thinking for yourself.”

“To the best of my abilities.”

She slides a hand into the pocket of his jacket, steals a stylus, and walks away.

***

The janitor's closet is cold and dark. Jim doesn't bother to turn on the light. He lights a cigarette but decides to watch it burn. Truth is, he doesn't like smoking, and there's not anyone to put on a show for anyway.

The door opens; light falls in.

“You lost?”

Uhura's standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Still, she came back. That has to be a good thing.

“I'm sorry,” he says. He doesn't have a lot of experience apologizing, so he's hoping simple is better. “For what it's worth, I really am sorry.”

“What you said was thoughtless, insensitive, cruel...” She hurls every word like it's a vile Klingon epithet.

“Yeah. Yeah it was,” Jim says.

She uncrosses her arms and leans against the door frame. Jim tries his best not to stare at the long, lean lines of her body silhouetted in the warm afternoon light.

“It was also a little true.”

“Yeah. That too.” He pauses. “But if we were going to say true things about me, I have a feeling they'd be worse.”

A lot worse. She's still here though, and that has to count for something. He grins.

“You think a princess and a guy like me...”

She smiles back.

“Maybe.”

And then she leans in. Silky hair brushes against his arm; the scent of her expensive perfume washes over him. For one incredible second, he thinks she's about to kiss him. Instead, she drops a diamond earring in his palm and sweeps out the door.

He'd pierced his ears last summer, mostly for the hell of it. The holes are closing up now – earrings made him look like he was trying too hard – but he pushes the post through anyway. The pain feels good.

***

At 15:30 hours, a single essay arrives in Pike's mailbox. It is one hundred and thirty-one words long.

 _Dear Captain Pike,_

 _You asked us who we are. We're not sure how to answer because we don't know what you want us to say. The truth is, you see as you expect to see us, as we once saw each other – in the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions._

 _Today, we discovered that each of us is a brain, an outcast, a princess, and a delinquent. We have all felt the pressure of expectations we cannot fulfill; we have all felt lonely; we have all lashed out in anger when kindness would have served us better. In other words, though we are not the same species, we are all human. And, though we are all different, from this day forward, we are a crew._

 _Does that answer your question?_

 

The essay is signed by them all, but it comes from the padd of Pavel Chekov.

“Not a bad answer, kid,” he mutters. “Not a bad answer at all.”

He opens a file that had been empty until this morning. It is a list of potential Starfleet recruits. Under the name of Janice Rand, he writes Spock, Pavel Chekov, Nyota Uhura, and Gaila. He pauses, taps the stylus against the edge of the padd, and adds one final name: James T. Kirk.

He sends them all a single message: PROVE IT.

He hopes they do.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We Are Not Alone (Fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651926) by [keatsinqueue (crediniaeth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crediniaeth/pseuds/keatsinqueue)




End file.
